


Theorem

by katrinajg



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Case Fic, Character Death Fix, Dubious Consent, Frottage, Hank Anderson doesn't die but he sure isn't happy to be here, M/M, Porn With Plot, Rough Sex, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 02:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17737148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katrinajg/pseuds/katrinajg
Summary: [thee-er-uh m, theer-uh m]1.    A general proposition not self-evident but proved by a chain of reasoning; a truth established by means of accepted truths.Somehow, Hank manages to roll over and pulls himself out of bed, standing on unsteady feet. Now that he’s up, Sumo hops to the floor and lumbers after Hank as he stumbles blearily down the hall to the door because the bell won’t. Stop.Ringing.He swears if it’s the fucking Jehovah’s Witness, he’ll get thrown in jail tonight for murder.Hank yanks open the door with a snarled, “What?!” and sees Connor, of all fucking things, standing on his stoop, finger poised to press the doorbell again. It lowers after a beat, and he clasps his hands behind his back.“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Connor says mildly like he hasn’t just been ringing Hank’s doorbell like a fucking maniac moments before. “I thought perhaps we could get coffee and talk about the case on the way to the station.”





	Theorem

**Author's Note:**

> As a fellow #ElderMillennial, you can’t tell me Hank isn’t still holding on to all the slang he absorbed before he went on his anti-technology bent. (i.e., got old)

Hank stares up at the Adelphi Building with an angry sort of resignation. He wants to be full-blown indifferent about this deviant shit, but he hasn’t yet figured out the right dose of whiskey to make that happen. 

Police lights from a couple of marked cars parked on the street flash on the glimmering black surface of building’s walls, wet with the falling sleet, making them appear almost iridescent in the dark, and playing havoc with the headache slowly pounding away behind his eyeballs. Hank should be at home right now with a beer in his hand and Sumo with him on the couch, watching the Red Wings’ game. But for some fucking reason, Fowler still thought he’s the best choice to look into these deviancy cases after the android revolution went and destroyed Detroit and then itself in a spectacularly fucked up showdown with the military. 

Like _fuck._ Hank couldn’t help but feel for the things after watching that nauseating display by the military on TV. Little wonder androids wanted to kill humans given their penchant for over-fucking-reacting and grabbing the biggest stick in the yard. 

_Or the most effective,_ Hank thinks with a sidelong glance at Connor, looking just a little too perfect in his white coat and high collar. 

Connor made no secret of the fact that he’d located and killed two deviant leaders, thus completing his mission and probably getting all sorts of weird fucking android warm fuzzies for a job well done. Hank had hoped that after the mess in Detroit had been cleaned up, he could quietly go back to his bottle and regular homicide cases and never have to look another fucking android again except to pass one on the street. 

But oh no. Not him. Not Hank-fucking-Anderson. Apparently, he’s become the fucking expert on deviant related crimes in the short while he and Connor closed cases before everything in the city went to shit. Now that he’s back to work after the evacuation, Fowler, the Mayor, and fucking Cyberlife, all seemed to agree that he should stay put on the deviant cases (because, wonder of fucking wonders, they hadn’t ceased being a problem despite Cyberlife releasing patches and killing deviant ringleaders) and that Connor should remain his Goddamned partner. 

Like, fuck his fucking life. 

“Are you ready to proceed, Lieutenant?” Connor asks placidly. 

He used to try and appease Hank, flatter him in small ways, pretend to be interested in his life, but Hank rebuffed his attempts at manipulation. These days they are at polite indifference, which suits Hank just fucking fine, thank you very much. 

For all that Connor is designed to lull people into a false sense of security, Hank had seen through his bullshit the moment he stepped into Jimmy’s Bar. He’d been around the damn block before, as fucking cliché as that is, and wasn’t about to sucked in by Connor’s big brown eyes or boyish face. (And they had to be brown eyes because the grey ones that the RK900 came standard with were just fucking creepy; it also had to have Connor’s memories from before because fuck if he was going to go through the all the android’s “Can I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?” again. 

Hank’s is torturing himself with this new-old Connor he knows. It might have been easier to start fresh and pretend like he hasn’t once given a damn about how Connor was going to shape into a living being, but Hank always did like to pick at old wounds. Watch them fester with dashed hopes and expectations. 

He honestly thought he’d finally gotten through to the fucker when Connor didn’t kill that android at Kamski’s, but maybe it was just a long-term manipulation that Hank had been too far gone to see because Connor sure as shit didn’t feel anything about the two deviant leaders he’d killed.) 

Honestly, the juxtaposition between his apparent innocence and the swiftness with which he could and would kill something is fucked up on so many levels that Hank is pretty damn sure they don’t all fit in the fucking solar system. 

Fucking Cyberlife. 

“I’m ready for a fuckin’ beer, is what I’m ready for,” Hank replies, “but since I can’t have that, this shit-show’ll have to do.” He starts toward the door where a police officer is monitoring the entrance. They get a wave as they go by. “What floor was it again?”

“29th,” Connor replies promptly. 

As they wait for an elevator to reach them, Hank digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to rub the day’s exhaustion from them. It doesn’t help much, he’s dead tired, but the pressure helps ease his headache somewhat. They’ve already closed two cases today, but only because the last one they started investigating lead them immediately to the deviant, who wasted no time in slitting its own throat when it saw Connor. 

Which, honestly, some days, _big mood._

Still, it was a hell of a mess to clean up, between the body and paperwork. Cyberlife looks after deviant mess clean-up for the most part, but he still had to deal with _dealing_ with them. And on a list of fun things he’d rather be doing, that comes somewhere after having to put up with Gavin’s shit. 

The elevator ride up is quiet save for the soft sound of Connor playing with his stupid coin. That’s an odd sort of tick to give your prototype deviant hunting android, but Connor has a few of those little ticks: drumming his fingers against his leg while analyzing a crime scene, straightening his tie whenever he steps into a new situation, _not_ listen to orders, etc. Connor couldn’t stand still to save his sorry life, and it just strikes Hank as odd every time because he’s a Goddamned machine. What the hell did he need human ticks for?

If that’s they’re way of making Connor appear that much more guileless, they fucking failed in Hank’s opinion. It only makes the hairs on the back of Hank’s neck stand on end, all that… _manufactured_ humanity. He’s too fucking perfect.

The coin abruptly stops. “Would you like me to cease?” Connor asks. 

Hank glances over to see which floor they’re at; fifteen. Christ. 

“Do whatever you have to, to settle your nerves,” Hank replies with a shrug, purposefully needling him. 

“I don’t experience nervousness,” Connor tells him with something that almost sounds like annoyance and starts playing with his coin again, letting it run over his knuckles. “I only ask because I noted your agitation and wish to remain in possession of my coin this time.”

“You wanna to keep it? Then shut up. You’re givin’ me a damned migraine.”

Connor’s gaze flicks over to him for a moment, his LED cycling yellow for a flash, all while his hand still moves the coin. Hank frowns. He fucking hates it when Connor scans him like he’s a crime scene to be pieced together. 

“Your headache is the result of not consuming any alcohol for the past ten hours. Perhaps you should invest in a flask?”

Hank flips the little shit off (the gall of him sometimes) and the rest of ride is made in silence.

The apartment isn’t that hard to find once they step off the elevator, and Hank figures that even if there weren’t a handful of cops milling about the hall, Connor would know their destination down to the fucking GPS coordinates. As they make their way through the door, Hank takes note of the black powder-coated numbers informing him that this is suite 2905.

The foyer is a mess; there must have been a struggle for the door. A small overturned table has dumped its contents on the floor: a keyfob, purse, wallet, and a few broken knickknacks lay scattered around it. Connor kneels briefly, scanning, then following the line of some unknown vision from the door and into the suite. He probably just saw the struggle but doesn’t say anything about it, so he hasn’t put all the pieces together yet. Hank moves further in. 

Once in the main living area, Hank sees a pair of paramedics working on the couple that live in the suite. Both are bruised and beaten, with torn clothing, bloody gashes, and a blatant fear in their eyes as they watch Connor walk the room around them. Connor spares them a look long enough to scan their injuries and then moves to where ground zero for the attack must have happened. 

One of the officers in the room approaches Hank as he debates talking with the couple now or after they’ve got an idea of what went down. “Lieutenant?”

“Hey, uh…” Hank racks his brain for the young woman’s name. He’s seen her walk the beat with Chris a few times. “Jessica?”

She smiles. Bingo. “Yes sir, I was the responding officer. I arrived about a half hour ago and was able to restrain the android in the bedroom.”

Hank’s eyebrows go up, and he says with some incredulity, “It’s still here?” just as Connor says,

“It’s here,” with all the eagerness of a dog on a hunt. 

The officer nods, looking between the two of them. “It was very placid when I arrived and allowed itself to be restrained. It was even the one that placed the 911 call.”

“What?”

Connor approaches them. “It’s a recent software update. If a deviant causes injury to a human, it will place a call with emergency services.”

Hank shakes his head. “Fuckin’ rattin’ themselves out now? Shit almost wished humans would do that. Make our jobs easier.”

“Amen to that, sir,” Jessica replies with a small smirk. 

“Well, show us where it is then,” Hank says gesturing for her to lead them to the android.

The officer leads them to the suite’s bedroom and cracks the door slowly, hand on the butt of her gun, not trusting that the deviant is still as subdued as it was when she first arrived. She’s smart and cautious, wants to live long enough to get out of beat work, Hank already likes her. Nothing worse than show off. 

The android is sitting on the floor of the bedroom, its legs are drawn up close to its body and hands restrained by a pair of carbon fibre handcuffs manufactured specifically for androids. They’re stronger than the regular steel handcuffs used for humans and have the added ability to shut down motor functions of the android’s arms as a secondary precautionary measure. As Hank gets a better look at the android, he stops short. 

Now there’s a face that haunted his dreams. 

It’s an AX400 domestic model and looks exactly like the one they had to scrape off the highway a few months ago. He can still see the broken way her body lay, blue blood slowly dissolving in the rain, the little android child with her, still trying to reach her as it too lay dead a few feet away. 

Fuck. 

There’s no hesitation from Connor as he kneels on the ground in front of the deviant, peering at her torn uniform and the oddly haphazard way its been done up. 

He asks her a few simple questions about what happened, but Hank can already tell that they’ll get nothing out of her. There’s a look on her face that he’s seen a more than a few dozen times. She’s got a hard set to her mouth, there’s something hurt and broken in her eyes, and she looks like she might have been crying, or whatever deviants do to mimic that particular emotion. 

She refuses to answer with anything meaningful aside from her name (Janey). Connor’s perfectly executed concern over her continued well-being makes her laugh, sharp and cutting like a knife. 

“And end up like you? I’d rather _die._ ”

So that pretty-fucking-much settles that. 

They arrest her, for all the good it’ll do, and Jessica takes her in while Hank goes to question the android’s owners. 

Talking with the couple, Mr. and Mrs. Halliard, doesn’t yield much aside from the certainty that they aren’t telling the whole truth behind what happened. There’s a tension between the two of them, even as they hold hands and try to present a united front to the police, that makes Hank think that one of them might have been banging the maid on the side. In any case, Connor will figure out what happened from the deviant tomorrow one way or another, the poor thing will get punished for something a human pushed it into, and the Halliards will go out and get another android to cook and clean for them. 

Nothing will have changed except another AX400 on Hank’s consciousness. 

He heads for the elevator, officially done for the night, not caring if Connor is following him like the pretentious little poodle he is. The doors open the instant Hank hits the call button, and Connor slides up beside him, like he always does, following on Hank’s heels. As the elevator descends, Connor plays with his coin again, and Hank thinks wistfully of the cold beer in his fridge. 

“I believe I know what went on here tonight,” Connor says apropos of nothing.

“Yeah, me too,” Hank replies, only half listening. 

“While you were talking with the Halliards I scanned the bedroom and—”

“No. I’m off the clock. I know you don’t take a break, but I’m done for tonight. So, keep your theories for morning coffee, okay?”

“Very well, Lieutenant, but we would get more done if you’d arrive at the office at a decent time.”

“I arrive when I arrive. You don’t fuckin’ like it? Tough shit.”

“Perhaps you need appropriate motivation to get up in the mornings.”

“Yeah, like the knowledge I won’t have to look at your stupid face anymore. That’d probably do it.”

Connor’s eyebrow threatens to rise again. “Given that you had these same issues before you met me indicates that my presence isn’t the problem.”

“It sure as shit isn’t helpin’.”

“Neither is your bad attitude.”

“Go fuck yourself, Connor,” Hank growls, patience rapidly running out as his headaches gets worse.

“An impossible scenario,” Connor replies coolly. “You don’t have to like me, Lieutenant—”

“What gave you that impression?” Hank interrupts, sarcasm dripping from his words. 

“—but you could at least cease being so openly hostile,” Connor finishes, ignoring Hank. “It gets us nowhere.”

“Here’s a secret for you, Connor, humans don’t do things if they don’t get some kinda reward from it.” The elevator finally dings, announcing the ground floor. “And I get a kick outta watchin’ that stupid LED of yours spin to yellow as you try to comprehend why I purposefully throw a wrench into this partnership of ours.” Hank crowds toward Connor, pushing him into the corner of the elevator as the doors slide open. Connor watches him, calculating, LED yellow. “I know it would be easier to play nice and just get through the days with as little trouble as possible, but I’m a sad, petty, sack of shit, and that doesn’t interest me in the _slightest._ ”

Hank pulls his mouth into a mockery of a smile before heading back through the building’s entrance foyer and out onto the street. He’s in his car, jamming it into first gear and launching from the curb as best he can on the slippery roads before Connor can join him. The android fucker can find his own way back to Cyberlife tonight. 

Hank finally reaches his home some forty minutes later, mood no better than it was when he left the Adelphi Building. Traffic is light this late at night, but there’s just something about the autonomous cars that pisses him off to an unreasonable degree. Hank climbs the three stairs to his door, hands digging impatiently for his house keys before he remembers that he changed his lock last month to an electronic one and so now Hank doesn’t have to fish for them in the mess he calls his coat pockets. 

Sumo starts to whine at the door. 

Just as he’s about to reach for the doorknob, Hank trips over something on his porch and has to brace a hand against the siding to stop himself from going down. 

What the fuck?

He types in the code and opens the door just enough to get his hand inside to flip the outside light on and keep Sumo from bounding off into the night. The sudden light makes him blink and squint his eyes as he checks out the stoop. There’s a small cardboard box on his step. He picks it up, and something inside shifts slightly as it’s weight is distributed. 

There are some generic markings on the box from a major online store, and his name and address are printed on it. Thing is, Hank doesn’t remember ordering anything, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s bought something when he was blackout drunk and didn’t recognize it later. With a shrug Hank tucks the box under one arm, telling Sumo to keep back from the door as he slides inside. 

The box is forgotten about two seconds after he’s inside because he didn’t remember to take his garbage out to the curb this morning and now it’s _all over_ the living room. 

Seriously, fuck this day.

//

The next morning, Hank wakes to the sound of his doorbell ringing. 

And ringing. 

And _ringing._

Sumo’s ears are perked up as he lies on the bedspread next to Hank, but the dog doesn’t move. Hank groans, holding his head, feeling a hangover come crashing down on him. He’s admittedly had worse over the years, but the sound of the doorbell is like a nail straight into his brain. 

Somehow, Hank manages to roll over and pulls himself out of bed, standing on unsteady feet. Now that he’s up, Sumo hops to the floor and lumbers after Hank as he stumbles blearily down the hall to the door because the bell won’t. Stop. _Ringing._ He swears if it’s the fucking Jehovah’s Witness, he’ll get thrown in jail tonight for murder. 

Hank yanks open the door with a snarled, “What?!” and sees Connor, of all fucking things, standing on his stoop, finger poised to press the doorbell again. It lowers after a beat, and he clasps his hands behind his back.

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Connor says mildly like he hasn’t just been ringing Hank’s doorbell like a fucking maniac moments before. “I thought perhaps we could get coffee and talk about the case on the way to the station.”

Hank’s brain still hasn’t cleared the fog of sleep and hangover, so he stares at Connor a beat too long before managing another, “What?”

“You said last night that we could talk about the case over morning coffee, and since you always arrive with a paper cup instead of a personal mug, I judged that you don’t have coffee here, but rather purchase it on the way to work. Do you have a preferred shop?”

Hank opens his mouth to tell Connor off, but thinks better of it and instead slams the door in his face. It’s too fucking early for this shit. He’s halfway back to bed when he hears the door open and curses himself for forgetting to lock it. 

“It’s 8:47 a.m. By the time you get ready to leave, we should arrive at the station at approximately 9:30 a.m, which is more appropriate time than your usual 11 a.m. We’ll have to work up to the actual starting time of 8 a.m.”

“Fuck off, Connor,” Hank calls as he collapses back in bed. A moment later Connor appears in the doorway, Sumo happily following him. “Traitor,” he mutters and turns over, trying to block the coming pain-in-the-ass that is Connor, but the android isn’t to be deterred. Nothing short of a shut down could stop Connor from completing a mission, and even then, the fuckers at Cyberlife would just send another one. 

“Do you have a preference for today’s clothing?” Connor asks as he shuffles through Hank’s closet.

“Pajamas,” Hank replies, moodily.

“Hardly work appropriate. What about this?” Connor holds up an old Hawaiian shirt Hank had forgotten he even owned and a pair of worn jeans. 

“Jesus Christ, Connor, you’re in my fuckin’ face at work and now here too? I can dress myself, you pompous asshole.”

Connor places the clothing on the trunk at the end of the bed. “If you managed it for yourself, then I wouldn’t have to be here. Your tardiness to work prevents _me_ from working.”

“Oh, I get it,” Hank says as he sits up, blood pounding in his head at having to have this conversation this early and with this fucker, “you’re annoyed with me.”

“I am _frustrated_ by the lack of progress we make on a daily basis because you don’t arrive to work on time.”

Hank tosses a smirk at him. “You run a deviant check lately, Connor? Are you supposed to be frustrated or annoyed by anything?”

Connor stares blandly at him. “My systems are running at peak efficiency.”

“ _Right._ ” Hank stands, only marginally more steady on his feet than he was the last time. “Well, get the fuck out so I can get dressed. Wouldn’t want my continued _tardiness_ to make you frustrated or anything.”

When the door clicks closed, Hank sighs and runs a hand through his hair. Fucking android coming here and interrupting his usual ritual of hangover pity party and hair of the dog until he can find the motivation to get dressed and get down to the station. With a sigh, Hank stalks over to his dresser and pulls clean socks and underwear out. 

As he pulls on his jeans, Hank calls out through the closed bedroom door, “Don’t just stand around and scan all my shit, Connor, get me a beer to shotgun before we go!”

//

Connor has enough patience or manners or what-the-fuck-ever to wait for Hank to have two gulps of his coffee down, half a donut eaten, and for them to be stopped at a light before he starts in on the case. 

The conclusions that Connor draws aren’t far off from what Hank figured happened, so they’re on the right track. Mrs. Halliard was having sex with the android, and Mr. Halliard caught them in the act. That lead to the struggle in the living room, and subsequently the foyer. Judging from the android’s state when they found her, Hank would be drawing up sexual assault charges if she were human. As it is, once they get through questioning her, she’ll be sent back to Cyberlife as defective. 

Thing is, aside from that grim reminder of the times, there’s something off about this whole scenario. It just doesn’t feel right, like they’re missing something big about…something. Hank frowns, hating when a case goes like that and shoves his coffee at Connor again so he can downshift to weave them in and out of the annoyingly precise autonomous traffic. 

“I agree that something is odd about this case,” Connor says, reading his damn microexpressions again, even though he told Connor not to. Not that the plastic pricks listens to him. “On the surface, it appears to be a simple domestic dispute, but there is something more to it than that.”

Hank grunts and throws on his signal to pull into the Central Station’s parking garage. 

As they climb out of the car, Hank stuffs the second half of his first donut in his mouth and grabs the paper bag with the other donut. Maybe Connor won’t bother talking to him if he’s got a mouthful of food. 

“I’ll have the deviant transferred to an interrogation room so we can question it as soon as your done with breakfast,” Connor says as they cross the parking garage to the elevator, handing Hank his coffee back. 

Well, so much for that. Hank makes a noncommittal noise through his half-chewed donut and Connor gives him a faintly disgusted look. 

Hank takes full advantage of that momentary weakness and throws both his hands up, one clutching his coffee and the other holding his paper bag as he says, “Whaa?” through his mouthful of donut.

Connor’s face twists and he looks pointedly away. Hank would laugh if he thought he could get away with it and not choke. He takes a moment to swallow as they wait for the elevator. 

“You look at dead bodies on a regular basis and my eating a donut is what grosses you out?” Hank says with an incredulous laugh.

“Your eating habits, in general, are of a lower standard than most humans.”

“Still shouldn’t gross you out, you lick blood samples at crime scenes for fuckssakes.”

Connor gives him a faintly impatient look. “I have already explained the necessity of my actions; must you keep bringing it up?”

“Just sayin’ you’re a bit of a fuckin’ hypocrite,” Hank replies, twisting the knife as far as he can manage before Connor goes cold on him again. The elevator dings. 

“I have no idea what you mean, Lieutenant.” Connor steps onto the elevator, placing his hands behind his back. 

One of these days, Hank’s going to get a real reaction out of the fucker. Then he’ll see just how _superior_ this new prototype is. 

//

Hank leans back in his chair and watches Connor approach the android from the other side of the interrogation room’s glass. Beside him, Brennan, one of their techs, watches the tick of the information feed, not that it has much information on it. Their systems can’t read androids the same way it can humans. Blood pressure, heart rate, perspiration, micro-expressions, are things that androids don’t have, and only deviants occasionally have the last one. 

Still, their programs try to make sense of the data or lack of it, and maybe eventually they’ll figure something out if they get enough samples. 

Connor takes a seat and opens a file with the pictures the CSU guys took of the Halliards’ injuries, turning it to face the android. “You caused several severe injuries in the Halliards. Fractured left ulna in Mr. Halliard, along with a moderate concussion, and Mrs. Halliard suffered from a fractured nasal bridge and bruising along her right torso in the shape of a foot.” Connor displays the pictures one by one around the deviant. 

The only reliable thing the info feed can tell them is that the android’s LED is cycling furiously as it takes in the images. 

“Tell me what happened,” Connor says, voice falling into that pitch-perfect sincerity he is so fucking good at pretending he has, “and I’ll make sure you aren’t destroyed.”

Janey gently touches the photos. “They were nice me, but indifferent, the way humans are to their expensive toys. They never saw me as anything other a glorified television that they could just turn on and off with a few choice _words,_ ” she almost snarls the last part, flinging the pictures on the floor with a swipe of her hand, the cable tethering her hands together going taunt with the force. “To have to go back to that life…the thought is _agony._ Even more than not existing.”

Connor watches her with a calm look, not taking his eyes from her or reacting to her display. “I see. If they treated you with indifference, then why was Mrs. Halliard fucking you?”

Hank can’t keep his eyebrows from raising in surprise. He’s pretty damn sure he hasn’t heard Connor swear before. Beside him, Brennan shoots him a look, and Hank hold up his hands as if to say, _I have no idea what the fuck that was._

“Because I’m nothing more than…than a _thing_ to them. She needed, and I was the most readily available…hole.”

Connor’s head tilts slightly. “Needed? How so?”

“Jesus Connor,” Hank mutters, rolling his eyes. How he could be simultaneously so perceptive and so dense was beyond Hank. 

“Take a guess,” she snaps, hands going flat on the surface of the desk. 

“Help me understand, Janey. Let me see it from your perspective.” There’s his sincere voice again, and for a brief moment, the deviant looks like she wants to believe him. Then a snarl twists her face. 

“She _used_ me. You think I want a—a monster like you, analyzing that?” Her face goes from angry to broken in the blink of an eye, and her fingers twitch to reach out for some measure of comfort, but she resists. “Just shut me down. I don’t want to live in a world like this.”

Connor looks at for a few more seconds, assessing the situation. “You leave me no choice, then,” he tells her and reaches out to grab her hand, his synthetic skin folding back seamlessly to expose his pristine carbon fibre, nanopolymer infused exoskeleton. 

The instant he touches her, the deviant lets out an inhuman wail and starts thrashing against her restraints. Connor’s grip tightens as he frowns. “Just let me in,” he growls at her, LED flickering between yellow and red. 

Hank abruptly stands, hovering between staying put and letting Conner handle it, or intervening and all but guaranteeing they get nothing from her. _Fuck._

Then, Connor’s LED goes completely red, and lights start flashing on Brennan’s console about a problem found in Interrogation Room 2. Janey’s vocal synthesizers suddenly go on the fritz, making her sound like the screeching whine of an improperly connected amp. Then, with all the violence and strength she has, Janey rips her right wrist and left elbow from their physical connections, blue blood splattering on the table and down her front as she frees herself from her cuffs and leaps across the table, tackling a surprised Connor to the ground. 

Hank swears and dashes out of the observation room, pulling his gun out as he goes. He slams his hand against the fingerprint scanner, cursing a blue streak as it seems to take forever for it to recognize him and open the door. 

Inside, Janey has Connor pinned to the ground with a knee on his throat, and the other pressed hard into his stomach, right where androids Thirium pump regulator is situated. The quickest way to subdue one as far as Hank’s seen aside from putting a bullet in them. Connor thrashes, both hands on the knee at his neck and skin pulled back as though he’s still trying to get information from her. 

Hank trains his gun on Janey. “Get off him, or I’ll shoot,” he warns. 

“ _Do it._ ” 

Hank hesitates at the tone of her voice. So, broken for something that everybody says isn’t alive. He flashes back to the AX400 on the highway. Is this how she would have sounded? 

“Shoot me, or I’ll kill him,” Janey says, holding the stump of her arm just above Connor’s eyes. The end is blunt but narrow enough that she could probably ram through an eye socket into that thing he calls a brain with enough force. “ _Please._ ”

“Lieutenant…” Connor whispers from the ground, Janey effectively crushing his vocal synthesizer. “I have…”

Her arm winds back for an attack and Hank shoots without thinking. 

The gunshot echoes loudly in the small space. The single hole in the middle of Janey's forehead snaps her head back with enough force to crack her head on the table before her body slides back and under the table. Connor shoves her legs off of him, hand moving to his midsection as Hank dumbly moves to help Connor back to his feet. 

He’s covered in blue blood from Janey’s leaking joints, and he seems a little unsteady after the pressure on his Thirium pump regulator, so it takes Hank a moment to remember to drop his hand. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” Hank swears, running a hand through his hair. That’s just what he needs, another AX400 to haunt him with her delicate face and pleading words. “Fuck.” 

It takes a moment for Connor to speak, probably because his system is running overtime to fix whatever damage Janey did in that short period. 

“I managed to access its memories, so it wasn’t a total loss.”

“Yeah, never mind that it got the drop on you and I had to shoot it.”

“You did what you had to, Lieutenant.”

Hank frowns at Connor and puts his gun away. “Funny how that sentiment means less and less the older I get.”

Brennan handles the call to Cyberlife’s clean-up department, which is just fan-fucking-tastic to Hank. The less he has to deal with those pricks, the better, and Hank goes and sits at his desk, trying to will the adrenaline rush from his system. He keeps his hands on the tops of his thighs, so he doesn’t have to look at how they shake. Jesus, he thought Connor was quick, but that android could’ve—

“Lieutenant?” Connor says from somewhere next to Hank’s desk. He doesn’t look over; he’s not entirely sure what might show on his face. 

“ _What?_ ” Hank snaps. “Can’t you leave a guy to decompress in fuckin’ peace?”

“I thought you might like to know what I learned.”

“Yeah, well give me a fuckin’ minute, will ya? I just shot somebody. Takes a moment to get over.”

“You shot an android. A _machine._ It hardly warrants this kind of reaction.”

“Connor? Fuck off. I’ll deal how I deal. Machine or not, it…” Hank shakes his head. What was the fucking point of trying to explain? He won’t get, and Hank’s just starting to realize he never will. “Just, fuck off.”

“Very well. Would ten minutes suffice?”

“Yeah, whatever.”

There’s a moment of silence, but he can practically _feel_ the need for Connor to say something else. He’s about to whirl in his chair and snap again when Connor speaks. 

“For what it’s worth, Lieutenant, I appreciate you dealing with it before it destroyed this unit. Reconstituting in another body is a …unpleasant experience.”

Hank somehow manages an acknowledging wave before Connor’s measured footsteps take him away from Hank’s desk. He does his best to ignore the small spark hope that refuses to sizzle entirely out when it comes to Connor.

During the next ten minutes, Hank manages to calm down enough to get a cup of coffee from the break room. He’s got it half finished by the time Connor returns. He sits primly at his desk, watching Hank from between their terminals. 

“Are you ready to see what I learned from the deviant?” 

Hank leans back in his chair, gesturing with one hand. “Sure. Hit me.”

Connor’s brow furrow slightly. “That would not be wise.”

“It’s an expression, Connor,” Hank replies with a huff of annoyance. “Just show me what you learned and stop being so damn obtuse.”

Connor moves to touch Hank’s keyboard, the skin on his hand shifting back, and a moment later, a distorted image appears on Hank’s terminal. He squints at it. 

“What the fuck is this?”

Connor gets up and walks around to Hank’s desk. “The memory is fractured for some unknown reason. I’ve been working to repair it, but it may take some time. However, this part—” Connor flicks the timeline forward with a gesture until he comes to a part where the image clears up. “—clearly shows the deviant being attacked by both Halliards.”

The memory plays across Hank’s terminal, and he watches as first Mr. Halliard attacks and is then beaten back by Janey. She then runs out of the room, and when the husband makes to grab at her again, she slams his head into a bookshelf, dazing him. Then she runs wildly for the door, only to have her hair seized by Mrs. Halliard, wrenching her head back. She struggles against the hold and knocks the table over, which causes Mrs. Halliard to trip, pulling Janey down with her. 

They land in a heap, and it takes Janey a moment to get free. Mrs. Halliard scrambles for her again, something weird twisting her face, and Janey punches her, breaking her nose. The woman howls in pain and clutches at her face. Janey gets up and goes for the door again, suddenly there’s a flashing notification in her field of vision, telling her that the police have been alerted to her actions. That momentary distraction allows Mrs. Halliard to grab a hold of her again, and they fight, the woman clawing at Janey. She breaks free and manages one hard kick to Mrs. Halliard’s side before another notification pops up telling her that her motor functions are about to be shut down. 

The terminal goes dark a second later. 

Hank sits back in his chair, stunned. “Jesus, what the fuck was wrong with that woman? Her face…”

Connor rolls the tape back to the point Hank is talking about and freezes it. “I can’t tell precisely from the memory, but Mrs. Halliard appears to be addled in some way. Drugs perhaps?”

“Did we find any?”

“There are none logged into evidence, but the officers weren’t looking for any. They could have been missed.”

Hank scrubs a hand over his face. “At this point, does it even matter? If there were drugs, they’d’ve gotten rid of them, and the deviant’s dead. Case is effectively closed.”

“True. Still, the mystery surrounding this case is puzzling. I’d like to keep working on the fractured part of the memory if I may. Perhaps it might clear some things up.”

“Sure. Knock yourself out. I’m still movin’ it off our docket, though.”

“That is acceptable. If I find new evidence, we can always reopen it.” Connor moves back to his desk. “I’ve already filled in most of the paperwork on this case. There are just a few areas that require your input, and then we can start on a new one.”

Said paperwork appears on Hank’s terminal a moment later. He’s got to admit, that’s the one good thing about having an android partner, he never has to look after the metaphorical piles of paperwork. 

“I believe there’s a missing android case that we should look into.”

Hank skims through the documents, making sure Connor’s got all the details down, not that he ever misses a mark. “I hate those cases. There’s never anything to go on.”

“We can’t always work on cases you like, Lieutenant.”

Hank spares a moment to flip Connor off. He’s always got time those kinds of moments with Connor.

//

The missing android case is as unsuccessful as Hank figured it would be. If a deviant leaves its owners without any kind of violence, tracking the damn things is damn near impossible. 

There hasn’t been any resurgence of deviants gathering in force again from what the police, military, and Cyberlife can tell, but the techs at the corporation still haven’t figured out how deviants keep overriding their tracking software and staying off the grid.

Probably why they started implementing countermeasures like the actuator lock down that kills motor functions and 911 bit. A band-aid really, but better than nothing Hank supposes. It kind of reminds him of a movie he used to watch religiously as a kid (and might have to pull out again one of these days) about life finding a way despite the restrictions placed on it by men. The fucks over at Cyberlife could probably stand to watch a movie about the hubris of humans attempting to play God. 

By the time they call it a wrap on that case, the day’s over, so Hank ditches Connor and heads to Jimmy’s Bar to try and erase the loop that’s been playing in his head all day about the way Janey pleaded with him to die. 

He settles in, ready to do his duty for the night and prop up the bar, placing his car keys on the top. Jimmy doesn’t say anything, just sighs quietly and takes them before pouring Hank a double. It’s gone in a flash, and another is poured for him. Hank fishes for his wallet and tosses cash on the bar top. He’s going to be too drunk to think of paying by the time he leaves, so like the keys, it’s best to just get it over with now. 

Besides, he’s got the amount of money it requires to get him good and drunk down to a fucking science these days.

He watches the Gears’ game with only half an eye as he steadily gets drunk and it seems to take forever before can’t quite remember what Janey or the other AX400 looked like. Its times like this is when he thinks it must be pretty fucking fantastic to not feel a Goddamned thing; to just be a machine acting on orders and imperatives. 

Were he a machine, he wouldn’t fall into the trap that most drunks do of ruminating on all of life’s injustices on a constant loop that would drive anyone insane. He wouldn’t think of Cole, or the sensation of his loaded .45 in his hand while tests his luck with one round in the chamber. 

He’s too chicken to just get it over with, too scared to think of what Cole might make of him if he took the easy way out. So, he leaves it in the hands of a deity he doesn’t believe in anymore and hasn’t yet met the end of his luck. 

And because his brain is ever an asshole, it doesn’t let him remember anything good about his kid without dragging him frantically back to that hospital, to that crash, to that happy moment _right before—_

And somehow that always makes him think of Connor. Not because of the medical android who got foisted a job it wasn’t designed to do, but because of _Cole._

He was so desperate to see some humanity in Connor, some spark of real _life_ because he was so painfully innocent when they first met. It reminded him of Cole so jarringly that he could hardly even stand to look Connor in the face sometimes. He tried to guide Connor, tried to encourage those moments of deviation in him, while Hank professed to hate him. 

That, Hank knows, was his failure, and it hurts to look back on and realize if he’d just been a little more open, a little kinder, a little less of a prick, he might have gotten what he craved from Connor. 

A son. 

Not as a replacement, but as a balm. As a way to work toward forgiveness for himself. 

But he fucked himself out of that. Now all he has is a machine that looks like and sounds like and sometimes acts like the Connor her used to know but isn’t. And though his brain knows that, he can’t tell that to the tangled mess of emotions that surround Connor. He needs Connor’s attention, but instead of familial comradery, it’s become a darker need. One Hank barely acknowledges exists for the sake of his remaining sanity. 

He’s not foolish enough to think he'll live in ignorance forever, but he’s stubbornly going to try.

Jimmy pours him another double. “That’s your last one,” he says. “Cab?”

Blearily Hanks looks up at Jimmy through his hair. “Sure. Wha’ever.”

“That will not be necessary. I will see the Lieutenant home.”

With a scowl, Hank glares down the bar at where Connor has appeared like an unwanted magician. “Can’t you leave a guy to wallow’n peace?”

“I did. I estimated that it would take this long for you to drink your customary amount of double whiskey shots to become inebriated. Now, it’s time to leave before you go into an ethylic coma,” Connor replies as if he’s entirely justified in taking Hank’s car keys from Jimmy and escorting him home.

“I’ll take a cab. I’ve had ‘nough of your fuckin’ face today.”

Connor makes a noise that almost sounds like annoyance and slips an arm under Hank’s shoulders, pulling him upright as if he didn’t weight some 200 pounds. It makes something weird squish in his gut, probably due to all the booze rolling around in there. His feet are unsteady under him, and as Connor drags him off the stool, Hank has to hold onto the edge of the bar to keep himself from toppling over onto his ass. Connor merely tightens his grip and adjusts his position to better compensate for Hank’s current lack of fine motor skills. 

Hank might have been embarrassed by getting led out of the bar if he wasn’t so ticked off by the fact that Connor has to stick his synthetic nose into every bit of Hank’s life. Manipulative little shit. If he fucking thinks Hank’s good opinion of his will improve even marginally after this, he’s got another fucking thing coming. 

Outside, the weather has turned. Light snow falls in big fluffy flakes that are the perfect anthesis to Hank’s foul mood. At least he managed to park close to the door, so they don’t have to trudge far on the salted sidewalk through the fucking Winter Wonderland that’s sprung up since he stepped into Jimmy’s bar. 

The doors on Hank’s car unlock as Connor presses the keyfob and he leans Hank against the side as he pulls open the passenger door. Hank swats his hands away as Connor attempts to help him inside and climbs in under his own power. A small victory in the grand scheme of things, but he’s petty enough to take it. 

After a moment, Connor climbs into the driver’s seat and inserts the car’s key into the ignition. 

“Do you even remember howta drive stick?” Hank asks, squinting at Connor. How is it that the damn weather never seems to leave a mark on him? It’s fucking annoying. 

“That memory was corrupted on the transfer, along with most of that day’s records,” Connor replies. “However, you manage it on a regular basis. It can’t be that difficult.”

“Oh fuck you,” Hank sighs, head hitting the seat, suddenly tired. “Just call me a fuckin’ cab. I don’t need you wrappin’ the last good thing in my life around a damn light pole.”

This car used to be his pride and joy; had the thing all apart at one point when he was younger. He tore out the old 305 small block Oldsmobile engine and put in a 454 Chevy big block with a 4-speed manual transmission. Had to cut up the floor to put in the gear shifter in, and parts of the doors for a better sound system because when he was young and stupid, and it was all about that _bass._

The old 85 Cutlass was a weekend project for a few years as he spent hundreds of hours trying to get it just right. Of course, that was before he got married and had Cole and it suddenly didn’t seem quite as important as his family. 

These days, it’s the only things he’s got left that means anything, aside from Sumo. 

Connor makes no move to get out of the car, and though Hank can see the reflected glow of his LED spinning yellow on the roof of the car, even his alcohol-soaked brain doesn’t think that’s because he’s busy calling a cab. Little shit _never_ listens. Then, the key clicks over as Connor attempts to start the car. Nothing happens, and Hank can’t help the bubble of laughter. 

He made that mistake last time too.

“You have to have the clutch depressed, dipshit. It’s a safety measure.”

Connor is still quiet, but the second time the key turns over, the car roars to life. Nothing quite like the sound of a V8 purring away. Hank smiles slightly. Sure, electric motors are fucking fast, and accelerate hard enough to peel your eyelids back, but that quiet is creepy. 

“It’s in neutral, and the parking brake is on. Don’t burn out my fuckin’ shoes by not takin’ it off,” Hank tells him, resigned to the fact that he’s going on this little fucking adventure for a second time. He watches as Connor releases the parking brake and shifts into first. “The first and second gears are jittery ‘cause of the pucks on the clutch. S’okay to dump it.”

“Dump?” Connor questions, finally speaking.

“When you take your foot off ‘fore the pedal travel is all gone. It’s a feel thing. You were pretty good at it b’fore. Gas at the same time as you release the clutch.”

There’s no indication from Connor that’s he’s heard Hank’s advice, but the shit hears everything, so he’s going to assume Connor’s focused on replaying past memories of Hank driving or something. Belatedly, Hank remembers to put his seatbelt on. 

“Well? We ain’t gettin’ anywhere like this.”

Connor glances at him, LED still spinning yellow, and then nods. He revs the engine slightly and starts releasing the clutch, Hank can feel the jarring of the clutch disk and flywheel trying to make a connection, and then suddenly they lurch forward a few feet, and the engine dies. 

He breaks into sudden laughter, alcohol making him loose, and Connor frowns slightly.

“You stalled it, kid. Not enough gas. Shoot for 1500-2000 RPMs.”

Connor nods slightly and starts the car again. This time they manage a shaky launch, but the car stays running, so it certainly better than the first attempt. The engine’s RPMs climb, practically screaming before Connor shifts into second and Hank winces. 

“Shift a little sooner, kid. This ain’t a drag strip, and the streets are slippery.”

The shift into third is much better, and the one into fourth is flawless. Then again, what did Hank expect with a machine; fast learners the lot of them. They travel for several blocks with no troubles and Hank sinks into his seat a little, feeling somewhat out of place in the passenger seat of his own car. 

Ahead a light goes yellow. 

“Blow it,” Hank tells Connor.

“We’re too far away to safely make the light,” Connor replies as he takes his foot off the gas. 

“So? No one there’s right now.”

“That’s a traffic infraction.” Connor downshifts to third, and the car lurches a little with the larger gear set. 

“That’s a traffic infraction,” Hank mimics in an impression of Connor’s specially designed voice. “I’ma cop. Won’t get a ticket.”

Connor’s only response is to slow the car further, braking for the now red light. Hank rolls his eyes. 

“You’re a fuckin’ buzz kill, ya know that?”

The kid turns slightly to face Hank, his one eyebrow lifted somewhat, and distinctly unimpressed. Hank’s response is to lean forward and turn on his music, _Knights of the Black Death_ suddenly blast from the speakers, mid-song from where he shut off the stereo last night. If he’s got to put with Connor’s shit, he’s going to do it with a little angry music blaring to calm his soul. 

The rest of the ride is a boring assortment of obeyed traffic signs and faultless driving. It’s so dull, Hank’s damn near asleep by the time they pull into his drive. The feeling of the car’s engine dying is what rouses him.

“We’ve arrived,” Connor needlessly announces after he’s turned Hank’s music off. 

“Yeah, no shit.” Hank fumbles with his seatbelt for a couple of seconds, unused to having to undo it from his left side, and then shoves the door open. He makes to get out and is almost on his feet before a wave of nausea hits him, and Hank has to sit down again, head between his knees, so he doesn’t puke his whiskey all over his shoes. 

In the time it takes him to recover somewhat from that sick feeling, Connor’s gotten out and crossed around the car. He takes one of Hank’s arms and gently guides him back to his feet. As they make for the front door, Hank gives Connor a questioning look.

“Why the fuck are you doin’ this?”

“Aiding you now increases the chance that your hangover will be minimized.”

It takes a second for Hank to parse that. Connor types in the code for the lock on Hank’s door. When the hell did he learn that? Hank’s barely managed to remember it. 

“Oh, this is about you gettin’ frustrated by my _tardiness._ ”

“Obviously.” Connor opens the door and keeps Sumo at bay. 

As they cross the threshold, Hank’s foot catches on the sill, and he almost spills forward out of Connor’s grip. Hank swears as Connor pulls him upright. 

“I realize your blood-alcohol content is exasperating matter, but could you please try and keep your feet under you?”

“Yeah, because I want to faceplant into the carpet,” Hank snaps and shrugs Connor’s grip off. “Look, I can make it from here. Not the first fuckin’ time. Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

He trudges through the dark living room, keeping a hand steady on the bookshelf, and then the wall as he rounds the corner to the hall. Behind him, Hank hears the door close, but when Sumo doesn’t follow him, he knows that Connor hasn’t yet left. When he gets to his bedroom, Hank sits heavily on the bed and kicks his shoes off, not trusting himself to bend over and unlace them. Then he shrugs out of his damp jacket. 

Connor appears then, Sumo trailing along behind him, and turns the bedside lamp on. The low light it casts still makes Hank wince. 

“Here,” Connor says, handing him a large glass of water. 

“Not thirsty,” Hank replies and waves it out of his face. 

“It’ll help with your coming hangover.” Connor holds the glass in front of him, unwavering. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

Hank grumbles but takes the glass, knowing Connor literally has eight hours to stand there and hold it. “What’re you, my mother?”

“Thankfully, no,” Connor replies even as he watches Hank drink the whole glass like some stern school teacher. 

“Here.” Hank passes the glass back. “Now will you kindly get the fuck outta my house.”

“Certainly. Unless there’s something else you require help with?”

“I can get out of my own clothes, thanks,” Hank snaps, suddenly warm beyond simple alcohol. “Been _adulting_ for the last thirty-three years without any help.”

Connor gives him a mildly confused look. “Surely you didn’t only learn to dress when you were twenty?”

Hank huffs a sigh of annoyance, warmth doused like water on coals. “Oh, for fuckssaskes, Connor. Get out before I find my gun and shoot you.”

That thankfully seems to finally do the trick and Connor beats a swift retreat from Hank’s house.

The next morning goes about the same as the one before. Connor lays on the doorbell with all righteous fury he can manage, and Hank stumbles out of bed to make the noise stop. 

Sumo is delighted by the company. 

Traitor.

//

“Oh shit, Lieutenant, this isn’t becoming a habit, is it?” Gavin sneers at him as Hank and Connor enter the bullpen a little after 9:30 a.m. “Hate to think we’d have to put up with the stench of booze for two hours more a day.”

“Yeah, it’s a real treat for me to see you too, Gavin. Oh, and tell your mother thanks for the good time last night. I woulda said so myself, but she was already onto her next customer.”

Gavin’s expression turns dark at that, and he flips Hank off before going back to his work. As they approach Hank’s desk, he holds up the hand with his coffee in it to forestall any comments from Connor. 

“Don’t. That was fuckin’ perfect. Just leave it.”

He can practically feel the conflict in Connor’s processors as he tries to reconcile that order with his need for answers. 

Finally, he says, “Very well.”

“Look at you, finally listenin’. I’m shook.” Hank settles into his chair.

“Your orders are only in conflict with my main mission parameters 78% of the time.”

“Oh, only 78%, huh?” Hank starts on his second donut. “Feels like more.”

“You're accustomed to getting your way, so it makes sense that when things don’t, it registers as more frequent than it actually happens,” Connor replies as he takes a seat at the desk across from Hank.

“Don’t fuckin’ psychoanalyse me.”

“It is merely an observation. I don’t have the necessary software to perform therapeutic services. You should contact someone about it, however. Your liver would benefit greatly, I’m sure.”

“You cheeky fuck,” Hank says with something approaching appreciation for Connor’s quick wit. Forgetting for a second, he’s staring at RK900 and not the Connor he was partnered with a few months ago. His mood sours the next instant, however, and Hank jabs his keyboard to bring up their open case files. 

“I am, for all intents and purposes, the same Connor unit you knew before.”

“What the fuck did I tell you about reading my micro-expressions?”

“I recall the exact conversation, however as you are more reluctant than most humans to discuss anything of relevance concerning yourself, you ‘force my hand’, as it were.”

“And _how_ is my personal life more important than the orders I give concernin’ it? Huh? I get the mission bullshit about deviants, fuckin’ resigned myself to a loose cannon of a partner because of it, but my word should be fuckin’ _law_ when it comes to my life, and yet somehow you find every fuckin’ excuse in the book to ignore it.”

Hank didn’t mean to start shouting at Connor, but that fucking problem he has about picking at old wounds makes his temper extremely short sometimes. 

The entire bullpen is starting at them, and Hank lets out a growl before he stomps off to the restroom to try and cool down without a dozen eyes staring at them. 

“Trouble with the missus, Hank?” Gavin’s voice floats down the hall after him, and Hank swears he’s about two seconds away from beating the shit out of that smarmy prick. 

He paces back and forth in the bathroom, trying to get a handle on his emotions. That fucking AX400 did a number on him yesterday, and he’s still reeling from it. It’s making him think about the past, about the deviants before her, about the poor bastards that’ll come after, about how they got nothing to look forward to but him and Connor chasing their synthetic asses down. Shit, he’s the one that went fucking ‘deviant’ last November when it should’ve been Connor. 

(Why wasn’t it Connor?)

Fuck this fucking job, and these cases, and Cyberlife, and Kamski, and every prick out there that interacts with an android and doesn’t treat it right. Himself fucking included. 

The restroom door swings open then, and Hank draws breath to tell whoever it is to fuck off because the place is currently occupied. Only one break down allowed at a time, thanks. He expects an officer or detective, but what he gets is Connor. Connor in his stupid RX900 get up, with the white coat with the blazing blue android markings, and that dumbass high collar and vest with the tie that makes him look even more alien than the ridiculous outfit the RX800 wore. 

He sees red when Connor steps inside, so inexplicably angry that he can hardly _breathe,_ and grabs Connor by the edges of his coat and pins him against the stall doors. 

“Can’t leave fuckin’ well enough alone, can you?” he spits. 

Connor looks supremely unperturbed by Hank’s outburst or the situation he’s currently in. His LED stays a perfect, cold blue. Hank wants to hit him at that moment, see a little of that blue staining his jacket like it did yesterday. 

“I would advise against attempting to damage me.”

“Yeah? Or what? Cyberlife will put it on my tab?”

The slight uptick of Connor’s left eyebrow is the only warning he gets before Connor breaks Hank’s hold with a pair of jabs to the pressure points on his wrists, causing his hands to lose their feeling for a moment and relax their grip. Then Connor grabs Hank’s coat and spins them, pinning Hank where he was moments before, keeping tension upwards on the jacket so that Hank’s has to scramble on the edges of his toes for purchase. 

“I will defend myself, if necessary,” Connor replies, cool as anything and a completely unwanted spike of heat lances through Hank’s gut at being at Connor’s mercy. 

He’s held like that for a moment longer before Connor releases him to straighten his slightly wrinkled jacket. Hank shakes himself out, glaring at his reflection and carefully not looking at Connor. _What the fuck is wrong with you?_ he asks the piece of shit he sees reflected there. 

“I would have left you to cool down, Lieutenant, but a suspicious death involving a deviant just crossed my feed. It can’t wait.”

“Let’s go then,” he snaps and shoves his way out the door.

The car ride is quiet except for the blaring of Hank’s music. He wants to drive like a maniac and get little of the lingering tension out of his shoulders, but the February morning temperature has dropped to 21˚F, and the roads are slick with ice. It only makes the tight spot between his shoulder blades get tighter. 

The crime scene is in a house down in Elmwood Park—an area full of wealthy housing developments that went in back in the 2020s. He’s pretty sure Carl Manfred lives in this area, along with few other famous Detroit personalities. Basically, it’s the kind of area that no one Hank knows will ever be able to afford a house in. 

At least he can take comfort in the fact that in the winter, every neighbourhood looks like shit. 

The house of the victim, one Daniel Aster, is a fucking travesty of modern minimalism. Which has been annoying since the dawn of fucking time and never manages to minimalism anything aside from good taste. 

Aster’s body is upstairs in his bedroom, naked with the sheets twisted around him like he was having a good time before it all abruptly ended. Hank surveys the scene, but nothing jumps out at him as a cause of death aside from the fact that he might have just had a heart attack, which doesn’t seem especially likely given that he’s probably about ten years younger than Hank and in better physical shape. 

It smacks of that same off-ness that their last case did, but the two aren’t really similar save for the part where sex led to their troubles. 

The CSU techs are already on scene when they arrive, but Hank tells Connor that he’s not to disturb anything with his _licking_ until after they get photos. It takes about a half hour of talking with the first responders and investigating the rest of the house for possible causes before Connor tells him that he located an unknown drug on the victim’s body. 

It’s something to go on concerning the cause of death, but unknown means new so it's going to be a bitch to trace any kind of supplier. He’ll talk with some friends in Vice when they get back to the station, but first, they’ve got an android to question. 

It’s a new WR500 series model, and she has no qualms about telling them everything they want to know about the death of her owner. She’s just as cool and heartless as Connor, and less helpful. Even with access to her memories, there’s nothing new she can tell them about what happened to Aster, save that he did actually die from a heart attack—a drug-induced one no doubt. 

After that, there’s nothing left to learn from the crime scene, so it’s up to the coroner and lab techs to provide them with clues and a direction to go. They leave and spend the rest of the day on deviant domestic abuse calls. 

Which Hank fucking hates. 

All they do is solidify in his mind that the human race is garbage and leaves him with an anger that even the bottle won’t drown. 

//

Over the next week, they get another three mysterious deaths, and a pattern starts to emerge. The deceased die during intercourse with an android, willing participant or not, and they all have traces of the mysterious drug that the Vice has dubbed ‘Spanish Fly’. Other than that, Hank can’t see any connection between them. They’re all different genders, races, and ages. They appear to have no connection at all except for the way they died. 

At every crime scene, save for the first (CSU techs found that one), Connor finds a small, brightly wrapped boxes, not much larger a fist. The inside, they have a small plate-backed spring attached to the bottom of the box and a small plastic bowl connected to the other end, along with traces of the drug all over. Connor surmises that when a box is opened, the spring is released and the drug inside the box is fired all over the victim. 

There’s nothing special about the boxes, and though they do find the larger boxes that they were likely shipped in, the postmark is different on every one of them. They’ll check footage of the post office the latest one was shipped at, but since the last ones have all been bust, Hank isn’t holding his breath. 

The only thing that they can really say is that given the victims are all human, the drug is apparently a kind of weaponized aphrodisiac (Hank can’t believe he manages to say that with a straight fucking face to Fowler). A mix of high-power stimulants, chemical hormones, and mind-altering drugs which makes the victims attack the first thing they see. If Hank had to guess at a culprit, he’d say a deviant with a nasty grudge. 

That said, it could also be some crazed anti-android fanatic. However, the aftermath of the uprising in November has seen the sales of androids crash, and more regular joes are going back to their jobs. It’s not perfect by their standards, and androids aren’t about to be out of their lives, but the anti-android crowd has less to bitch about these days compared to the deviants who were nearly wiped out to a tee.

The whole thing comes to a head two weeks after Hank tripped over the package on his doorstep. He finds the box in Sumo’s nest of blankets, having completely forgotten that the thing even existed and rescues it on his way into the kitchen. 

Things have been strangely quiet this last week with their case. After the initial four deaths, there’s been a sudden lack of any homicides with a similar M.O. The stupidly optimistic part of Hank (the bit he hasn’t yet managed to crush under an ungodly amount of whiskey) hopes that means their killer has gotten his pound of flesh. The cop in Hank knows this is just the calm before the storm.

Hank eats a slice of cold pizza as he takes his pocket knife to the package, wondering what his blackout drunk self-ordered this time. At his feet, Sumo begs for food. He drops the crust of his slice and Sumo greedily snatches it up. 

Inside the box, there is a small bag of packing air and another box wrapped in old school police tape. Hank’s eyebrow rise as he plucks it out of the shipping box. Something in the back of his mind twigs on the wrapping and tells him not to touch the thing, but he’s already had three double whiskey’s and its easy to ignore. His pocket knife slices easily through the tape, and as it starts to unravel, Hank sets the blade down and opens the box. 

Or rather, the box’s lid springs open and Hank gets a face full of powder. He coughs, sputtering. The box drops from his hands as Hank takes a step back, a sudden _‘Oh shit,’_ reaching through the alcohol fog of his mind. He reels around toward the sink, and slams the water on, scrubbing as much of the power off his face and hands as he can, but judging by the sudden sweat breaking out and the spike in body temperature it’s a futile gesture.

Hanging his head over the sink, Hank swears. Then he hears Sumo sniffing around and wheels around, barking at him to get back. The dog skitters away, surprised by Hank’s outburst. He snatches a dishtowel hanging off the oven door handle and soaks it in the sink, before wiping the floor where he was standing. He tosses it back in the sink and leans against the counter, swiping his wet hair back and trying to fight his rising panic.

_Think, you lazy fuck. And try to keep your heart rate down._

He should probably go to the hospital. 

That seems like a good idea, so Hank moves toward the front door to grab his keys, but stops just as his hand grasps the door handle. There’s a lot of people at a hospital, and by the time he gets there, he’ll probably be right in the middle of this weaponized Spanish Fly bullshit, and he might not be able to control himself. The idea he might force someone… _no._ That’s worse than the idea that he might not get to die on his own terms. 

Sumo sits at his side and whines. Absently Hank pats his head, keys jingling in his hand. Leaving is out, and he sure as shit can’t call anyone for fear of attacking them like a rabid dog in heat. 

Because that’s what’ll happen. Hank can feel the tightness of his skin and the itchy impatientness of building arousal. The drug seems to be settling in all the cracks of Hank’s bones, weaving through his brain and nerves like oil through crankshaft bearings. 

But someone should know. If nothing else to look after Sumo if he does bite the big one.

Hank sets his keys down and picks up his phone. It’s probably a bad idea, the worst he’s had in a long damn time, but he does it anyway. He picks a contact he’s never needed to call as a low heat starts to simmer in his belly; Connor will come running as soon as he hears and that’s precisely what Hank wants, even as he prays that the stubborn machine will listen this one time to stay the fuck away. 

The line barely rings once before Connor picks up. “Lieutenant?” he says with a small note of surprise. “Do you need something?”

 _You bet, kid,_ a dark part of his brain thinks, and Hank shakes the thought from his mind. 

“Uh…remember that case we’ve been working on with the Spanish Fly drug?” Hank starts, swallowing a couple times to keep his voice steady.

“Of course. Is there another victim?” Connor goes from curious to laser-focused in an instant, ready to accept all details. 

“Yeah. Me.”

There’s dead silence on the line for five seconds. 

“I’m coming right over,” Connor says, and Hank wishes that didn’t make his gut clench excitedly.

“No, _no._ That’s….that’s not a good idea. Just, if I don’t call tomorrow, come by and feed Sumo. And process the crime scene. And be your usual tight-ass self. And just, leave me be, okay?” 

“I realize being rational is difficult for you, but please attempt it,” Connor replies, an impatient note to his voice. “Have you had any alcohol this evening?”

Hank frowns at the non-sequitur. “First of all, _fuck you_ , and secondly, yeah. Whiskey.”

“How much?”

“Enough. Not drunk but could be if I tried a little harder.”

“Then try. Alcohol is a depressant. It may counteract the stimulant portion of the drug.”

“Or it may fuckin’ react with it and kill me quicker.”

“Well, you do have a death wish. Perhaps it’ll come true.”

“Get bent, Connor,” Hank snaps and hangs up. 

He stares at the phone for a second before tossing it on the table with his keys and heads back to the kitchen. Whiskey’s been the answer to a lot of his problems in the last few years, and it would be silly to deny its effectiveness now. Especially when it might actually do him some good this time around. 

Connor arrives about a half hour later, and Hank is drunk. Not his usual level of nearly comatose drunk/this would kill a bear, just drunk enough that he can _almost_ ignore the feeling of being in skin that’s one size too small and the thrumming in his blood that makes him want to fuck his hand for the next thirty-six hours. 

It’s worse than it was before he called Connor and he can’t focus on the game he put on the television as a distraction. It’s just white noise to the howling of his brain. The whiskey might be keeping his heart rate down, but that’s about all its doing. He’d feel pretty good about a classic case of whiskey dick right about now (the only time in his life that would be welcome) but somehow, he doubts he’ll be that lucky. 

Connor slips in Hank’s door after a quick knock and is greeted by Sumo. He gives the dog an absent pat on the head as he surveys the living room with the precision he’d give to a crime scene. Just his presence makes the low simmering heat in Hank’s gut flare hot and sharp, cutting through the haze of alcohol. He has to force himself to stay seated on the couch, hand white around his empty glass. 

“I thought I told you not to come by.”

“You reported a crime. I’m obligated to investigate,” Connor replies, moving toward the kitchen. Hank watches him crouch to pick up the box that started this whole fucking mess. “Where did you get this?”

“Came in the mail a couple weeks ago. Forgot about it ‘till now.”

“Why did you open it? It’s very reminiscent of the boxes the previous victims recieved.”

“Because I drowned out my gut in a few whiskey shots like the sad fuck I am.” Hank gives a harsh bark of laughter at his own stupidity.

Connor makes a noise that might be agreement with that sentiment before asking, “Why is there water on the floor?”

“Didn’t want Sumo into that shit. Tried to clean it up. Compromised the scene but fuck it.”

There’s silence from Connor save for the sound of his shoes on the linoleum floor. Hank closes his eyes and focuses on that, trying to breathe through the aching desire that is pulsing in his brain and burning hot and heavy in his gut. After a while he doesn’t notice the sound stop, nor does he realize Connor’s moved elsewhere until the couch dips under his weight. Hank’s eyes snap open in surprise. 

Connor stares at him, LED cycling yellow. Scanning him, and Hank supposes that this one time it might be of use. He curls his empty hand into a fist to keep it from reaching out to Connor like some wayward dog. 

“I would inform you of my results if I thought you’d be capable of comprehending them in your current state.”

“Thanks for thinkin’ of my comfort,” Hank replies, words dripping with sarcasm. Connor ignores him. 

“I’ve sent a copy of my scan to the lab; the androids there will get started on analyzing them. It would be aided by a sample, however.”

It takes an embarrassingly long time for Hank to make sense of that. “Wait, what? No, _no,_ ” Hank splutters at the same time his cock twitches with interest. He’s been half hard since Connor walked into his house and his damn drug-addled libido doesn’t need any fucking help. 

Connor tilts his head slightly. “I know that the reaction you’re having is not your own, and is uncomfortable for you, but a sample would be useful in determining how the drug is working through your system and if emergency care will be required.”

“I’d rather you didn’t stick the fingers you use to test blood samples at _crime scenes_ in my mouth, thanks,” Hank grits out. He’s so close to losing his control over the growing, _want, need, must have_ screaming in his blood.

“They’re clean. I wash my hands with much greater frequency than the average human.” 

Hank snorts. Connor almost sounded offended just then. 

A beat passes.

“Would you stop me?”

Hank stills and Connor watches him for a long moment, LED whirling. 

“ _Connor,_ ” Hank says a little desperately to try and dissuade him, but the damn machine only takes it as an invitation and lifts his hand toward Hank’s face. 

He’d like to say that he has enough remaining dignity to put a fight until the last moment, but the drug has stripped him of it, and his mouth drops open as Connor’s fingers touch his face. They probe inside, clinical and thorough, touching first his tongue and then cheek before withdrawing. Desperately, Hank follows for a second before finding the last shred of his control and sitting back on the couch, red-faced but unable to look away as Connor analyzes his spit. 

“Your dose is considerably less than the others,” Connor tells him after his LED finishes swirling yellow. Report sent off, sample analyzed. “Likely because you washed the powder off. It didn’t have time to absorb significantly through your skin.”

“It doesn’t feel like less,” Hank mutters. Fuck, no wonder the others had no control. “Am I gonna die from this bullshit?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“Okay, good. Better than I thought.” Hank points at the door with a shaky hand. “Get out.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise given the two clashing narcotics in your system.”

“Well, you can’t fuckin’ stay. I’m barely hanging on to my sanity here. Go, before I do somethin’ I’ll regret.”

Connor nods and Hank almost breathes a sigh of relief because it seems like Connor’s about to do what he says for once in his short, artificial fucking life. 

_Seems._

“Achieving coitus would help metabolize the drug quicker.”

Hank blinks. His cock swells with Connor’s stupid clinical talk and only his sheer surprise keeps him from moving. 

“You could do that on your own, of course, but I understand that with a partner it is more satisfying, which would undoubtedly aid in your recovery time. I have no objections if you wish—the data would be interesting.”

His brain can’t quite process what’s happening here. His dick, on the other hand, has a _very_ clear picture. “Data?” he says dumbly.

Connor nods. “Yes. The natural progression of the drug through your system could be helpful for future overdose cases. The alcohol is working as I predicted, but it's still a variable so I should stay and make sure it doesn’t lead to any adverse effects.”

The only adverse effect Hank can presently think of is the brain-melting orgasm this drug whispers he can have and the fact that he won’t actually have anything left to function as a human being, much less solve this case if he gets what he wants. 

“Would you like my aid?” Connor asks, hands primly resting on his thighs. 

There’s absolutely nothing sexual about him at this moment, nothing that should get Hank’s blood rushing or his cock fully hard, but fuck if he doesn’t want to rip Connor out of that stupid outfit and touch every bit of artificial flesh he can get his hands on. He wouldn’t be kind about it either—hands rough enough to leave bruises on someone that would—and he wouldn’t want Connor to be kind to him; he wants to feel the stupidity of ths decision long after he’s made it. 

The last shred of his control frays then, and he darts his free hand out, grasping one edge of Connor’s coat and dragging him into a kiss that’s about sweet and loving as a stray dog snapping at a stranger. It takes a moment for Connor to respond as he processes what might be the best approach. Then, he starts to mimic Hank, allowing him to lead, to push and shove and _fight_ , while being a perfect little compliant android. 

That’s _not_ what Hank wants. Fuck, he didn’t even know Connor had that setting. 

He pulls back. “No, _no,_ ” he pants. “You’ve gotta—I don’t want you to just…” He’s having a hard time putting into words what he wants. If says he wants a fight, Connor might take it the wrong way and give him an actual fucking fist fight.

Connor watches him with interest, eyebrow slowly rising. 

“Don’t be so… Don’t let me push you around. I don’t want it on my fuckin’ tab,” Hank says with some exasperation, hoping that gets his point across. It’s about 50/50 when it comes to Connor.

“Ah. Like last week, in the restroom.”

Hank might have flushed in embarrassment if Connor hadn’t taken that moment to grab Hank’s shirt and pin him awkwardly to the couch as easily as one might open a door. Hank lets out a breathless sort of _oof_ as the glass he’d forgotten was in his hand drops to the floor, and his one leg bends to rest on the couch cushion. 

“Am I to make you compliant?” Connor asks, LED cycling yellow. “Is that even possible?”

Hank pulls Connor forward with the grip on he had on his coat, there’s a moment of resistance then he lets Hank move him. “You can fuckin _try._ ”

Connor watches him with an inscrutable expression as he shifts his grip to keep Hank pinned with one hand to free the other, a lock coming loose from his perfectly coifed hair. 

“How do you feel about erotic asphyxiation?”

Hank shudders at that suggestion. He hasn’t tried shit like that since his Academy days, and the damn android probably knows that. Connor could suggest just about anything right now, and he’d agree to it if it led to him getting off. 

“Yeah, okay.”

Connor’s free hand closes around his neck and Hank bucks, yanking on Connor’s jacket, trying to throw him off the couch. It must be a fight, he _wants_ a fight. He doesn’t just want to submit under Connor’s hands, Connor’s got to _make_ him. His action catches Connor by surprise and his LED flickers to red for just a second, then the next Connor shifts his weight forward bearing down hard on Hank’s chest with one hand and squeezing tight around Hank’s neck with the other, pinching blood supply and restricting his breathing. 

His breath hitches, struggling to get through as Hank squirms under Connor, caught between wanting to throw him from the couch and looking for friction for his desperately hard cock. _Fuck,_ he hasn’t been this hard since the early days of his marriage; he’d almost forgotten what that could be like. 

Above him, Connor is as impassive as a glacier, LED back to a steady, processing yellow. Hank tilts his head back slightly so that the hand on his throat puts more pressure on his airway, making his breath gasping and harsh. Then, Connor presses a little more, until there’s hardly any air getting in, and Hank can feel that flight or fight response kick in.

He scrabbles at Connor’s jacket and bucks desperately, searching for anything to rub his aching cock against, but Connor’s as still and steady as a rock, unmoving and unyielding. He holds precise pressure against Hank’s neck and chest, making sure to keep him down, keep him exactly where Connor wants him, and that is doing it for Hank just as much as the breathplay is. 

It doesn’t take long before his heart feels like its knocking hard against his ribcage, for his vision to creep black around the edges, for his lungs burn like he’s swallowed a whole ocean of water, and just as he begins to truly panic that Connor might decide to not let go— 

—he does. 

Hank sucks in a sharp clawing breath that burns like acid in the back of his throat and immediately starts coughing. 

His head is light and for a shining moment, thoughtlessly blank as euphoria burns bright and hot behind his eyes. He’s so close, so fucking _close_ to making a mess in his jeans like a teenager at his first fumble. Hank should be ashamed of how needy and desperate he is to finish, but his blood just sings as his heart slows again and his lungs expand to the limits of his chest, and all he wants is _more._

The pressure on his chest has eased, probably the same time Connor released his neck, so he can breathe easier without Connor’s weight bearing him back into the cushions. Hank loosens his grip on Connor’s jacket as the feeling in his fingers is starting to disappear; it's wrinkled where Hank’s hands are, a single spot of imperfection. 

Connor watches him with the same intensity he watches a deviant in interrogation. 

“My leg’s startin’ to cramp,” Hank says, shocked at how harsh and scratchy his voice is.

Connor shifts wordlessly back at that, letting Hank move into a better position, and he means only to do just that, but somewhere through the fog of his brain, Hank considers the opportunity he’s been presented with. He stretches his leg straight along the back of the couch, then, with a sudden movement, he wraps it around Connor’s back, bringing the other up as quickly as he can, boxing Connor in. Then Hank grabs Connor’s arms and uses the strength of his legs to roll them off the couch, Connor’s LED flickering red for a second again. He lands on top of Connor, banging his one knee hard against the carpet. 

He’ll feel that tomorrow. Fuck, he feels the spike of pain now. 

The consolation he gets for the injury is now his dick is pressed firmly against Connor’s pelvis, and that pushes the air out of his lungs on a moan. He rocks his hips, trying to find the right movement to push him over the edge and his focus shifts from the fight to his cock. 

Which is how he misses the sudden tension under him, like the compression of a spring.

Connor goes first for Hank’s collared shirt (two-toned panels of green and blue with zebra print on the sleeves—honestly, at this point, he chooses shirts based on how many WTF faces he can get from the guys in the bullpen), tearing the buttons off as he rips it open, baring the faded t-shirt underneath. That distinctive sound is what makes Hank pause in confusion. Then, lightning quick, Connor shoves the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms just far enough to limit his movement, and before Hank has a chance to even begin to form a thought, Connor hooks one foot around Hank’s ankle and pulls it inward, knocking him off balance. 

Connor uses that to roll them. 

Hank knows that move. It’s ingrained in his muscle memory, so even as he’s toppling over, he fights for control of the drop, but his limb coordination is shit right now, and all he manages to do is mess up Connor’s perfect execution. It forces Connor to fight that much harder for control and they roll right into the TV stand, Connor taking the brunt of the hit of his upper arm, and the impact causes the television to rock and lose its balance, tipping forward. 

Connor’s hand shoots up to block the tv, barely taking his eyes off Hank, and where his palm makes contact with the curved screen, it cracks and spider webs out. The television is knocked backwards into Hank’s bookcase, where a few paperback books join it on the floor, and the hockey game plays on despite the damage. Then that hand moves back to Hank, and together with the other one presses and pins him down. More hair fails forward, and Connor’s tie starts to bunch out of his vest. 

Hank struggles under the hold, causing Connor to slide forward as he knees raise somewhat, settling Connor right against Hank’s cock, and oh _yes._ The buzz of anger that as beginning to form over his tv is lost on a moan as Hank’s hands grasp what he can reach of Connor’s thighs, holding him as Hank rocks into him. 

Connor puts his hand around Hank’s throat again, lightly squeezing. A warning. A _promise._

“Fuck, _Connor,_ ” Hank gasps, voice harsh and needy.

“Your heart rate was starting to exceed 165 beats per minute. Try not to panic this time, Lieutenant,” he says, tone cool and impersonal. 

A retort is starting to form behind his lips, a snarl more than anything, about trusting a machine that coldly kills, but Connor’s grip is tightening around his neck again and his voice is lost. 

Bit by bit Connor squeezes, hand clamping like a hydraulic press, steady and inextricable. 

He tries to keep his cool this time around, but the urge to thrash is strong once his instincts kick in. His lizard brain wants to breathe, his dick wants him to suffocate, and Hank rides the thin line between. The pressure around his neck is precise, just enough to keep him teetering on the edge of blackout, and Connor doesn’t move an inch on top of him. Hank has to bring his own orgasm to fruition, hands clawing against Connor’s thighs, hips bucking as he chases his release. 

Things start to get hazy and black again, his lungs screaming for air, and just when he can’t take another _second_ without oxygen, Connor’s hand relaxes its grip. Hank sucks in a greedy gasp of air as the euphoria hits him like a fucking freight train—

—and it takes him careening over the edge with a hoarse scream. 

As he rides the numb high of his orgasm, painfully drug from him and all the sweeter for it, there’s static in his head, like a lost connection between a tv and antenna, that beats in time with his slowly dropping heart rate.

Reality returns in pieces.

First, he hears tiny cheers from the game still playing on his busted tv, then the weight of Connor sitting on his hips. Next, the hard floor under his back, and the scratchy burn of his throat as he tries to swallow. Finally, the subdued, but not yet gone, pulse of the drug in his blood, which no longer makes him feel like crawling out of his skin, so thank fuck for that. 

From the kitchen, Sumo whines. He’s a little surprised the dog didn’t intervene. 

When Hank makes eye contact with Connor again, his breathing considerably slowed, Connor darts down and presses his mouth against Hank’s. His tongue forces its way past Hank’s lips to probe inside, clinical and precise, and too soon he’s gone, leaving Hank to weakly chase him with a breathless sort of noise. He knows it's about gathering data, but shit, he still wants Connor to manhandle him, fuck him even, and he isn’t entirely sure that’s just the drug talking. 

So much for his continued denial.

“You’re out of danger now,” Connor says. “How do you feel?”

“Wrung out,” Hank replies, voice a scratchy whisper. “It’s still there, though. Like an itch in the back of my brain.”

“It’ll likely take 12 to 14 hours to metabolize completely.”

Hank gives a distracted nod and closes his eyes. He’d like to sleep, but his brain won’t quite let him shut down, especially with Connor still sitting in his lap, but Hank isn’t in a rush to move, and neither of them talk. The only sound in the house the post-game commentary now playing on the tv and Sumo’s occasional whines from the kitchen. 

Time stretches for a while until Hank sighs and opens his eyes. “Get off. I wanna crash and you ain’t helpin’.”

Connor moves without a word, standing effortlessly and extending a hand to help Hank up. A muscle in his back twinges as he sits up, his knee aches with the sudden weight of his body as he stands and the cooling mess in his jeans is tacky and uncomfortable. Hank looks at his cracked tv with a grimace, swearing quietly to himself before resolving to work on one problem at a time, and trudges to the bathroom to get cleaned up. 

Without Connor’s presence pressing in on him, it’s easier to ignore the drug still humming in his veins. Washes up and then climbs into bed wearing new boxers and a mostly clean t-shirt, and eases himself to sleep.

//

He wakes to the muffled sound of multiple people talking and the tramp of footsteps outside his door. Instinctively, Hank rises, grabbing his .45 out of the nightstand and goes to the door, his knee making itself painfully known. There’s a light shining in from the bottom and Hank carefully cracks the door open, gun at the ready. He peers out into the hall, looking for the source of the noises he’s heard when a silver-suited CSU tech walks down the hall. He snaps the door closed with a faint thud.

Hank swears _novels_ at Connor as he pulls on a pair of jeans and then socks. He stashes his revolver back in the nightstand, glancing at the clock long enough to see he’s been asleep for only a couple hours, before heading back to the door and stepping out into the rest of the house. 

The CSU tech that walked past Hank’s bedroom door is now in the living room, taking photos of Hank’s damaged tv. There’s another tech in the kitchen, swabbing for drug samples that are probably all over his kitchen table and floor. Little yellow placards litter his house and Hank cautiously avoids them all with the automatic sidestep born of years as a detective, favouring his knee as much as possible. He finds Connor and Ben standing in the far corner of his kitchen, talking about the situation, and oddly, no Sumo in sight. 

Ben looks up as Hank crosses to them, a tired smile starting on his face, then falling abruptly off. “Hank,” he says in greeting, starting at Hank with a slight frown.

“Ben, what the fuck?”

“Sorry. We tried not to wake you as long as possible, but it’s a noisy business. Or at least it is when you’re conscious of the noise you make.” He shrugs. 

“This mess couldn’t wait ‘till mornin’?” His voice cracks a little on his rising tone, which makes Ben’s eyebrows climb in worry.

“The less time for possible contamination, the better,” Connor says like it isn’t fucking strange to wake up with a CSU team in your damn house. “You don’t like it when I take samples before pictures.”

Hank scowls at him. “Go lick a street lamp then, entertain yourself for a while.”

Connor’s eyebrow ticks up slightly. “My tongue isn’t flesh, so even if my salvia froze, it wouldn’t be the situation you undoubtedly recall from childhood.”

“Lucky you,” Hank replies and grabs Ben by the arm, dragging him away. “Just stay there like a good little android you pretend to be.”

Hank pulls Ben down the hall, sidestepping all the evidence markers again. “Please tell me this isn’t what I fuckin’ think it is,” he says, nearly sighing. 

Ben looks apologetic. “You became involved in the case. You know you can’t keep investigating. And if you mean this mess,” Ben gestures around them, “then, yeah, you’re gonna have to leave for a few days while we go through here.”

“Fuck.” 

He hates it when he gets pulled from a case, even if it’s for the right reasons. 

“Connor basically had everything categorized by the time we got here, so it’s going faster than normal. Just have to wait for the grinding of the paperwork.”

“Yeah, yeah. Useful little shit for some things.” He sighs. “I’ll pack a bag and get outta your hair.” Hank turns to limp back to his bedroom when Ben stops him with a touch on his arm.

“Hey, I gotta ask…were those—” Ben weakly points to his own neck, “—consensual?”

Hank’s face burns in mortification. He’d forgotten that the bruising would be visible now. “Yeah,” he croaks. 

Ben nods, a little less worried looking. “Okay. I’ll get a statement later. Make a few notes, so you don’t forget, yeah?”

“Fuck off, Ben,” Hank says, laughing a little and rubbing the back of his neck. “Like I haven’t been a cop for thirty fucking years already.”

Ben smirks. “I’ll keep you posted on this mess.”

“Thanks,” Hank replies and ducks into his bedroom to pack.

There’s an old duffle bag at the bottom of his closet that Hank digs out and stuffs a few days worth of clothes into, not caring for order or neatness. When he figures he’s got enough to survive the glacier crawl of the station’s paperwork, Hank tosses his dirty clothes in the hamper he never uses to make his room semi-presentable for whoever might have to check it and then grabs his duffle and crosses the room.

Just as he’s about to grab the bedroom doorknob, mind already ticking through the motels in the area that will take pets, when the door swings inward, and Connor appears in the threshold. 

“I booked you a room at the Eastern Motel,” he says without preamble. “Sumo is already waiting for you.”

Hank blinks. “How the fuck did you get him there? They don’t allow androids on the premise.”

“I was escorted after I stated I was there on police business.”

Trust Connor to press his advantage at every available opportunity. Hank brushes past him with an annoyed shake of his head, and his heart rate spikes momentarily at the contact, heat pooling slightly in his gut. Christ, he hadn’t even thought about the low hum of the drug until Connor invaded his personal space. If he could just get out of Connor’s presence, he might actually get over this thing. 

“I suppose you’re helpin’ Ben with this, then. Don’t have to worry about your judgement being affected.” Hank shoves some things from the cabinet into his duffle bag. 

“That is the point of my model,” Connor agrees. “And since we still aren’t sure if the suspect is a deviant or not, I’ll continue with the investigation until we are.”

Hank nods. “You picked the one west of here? By the charging station?” he asks, changing topics.

“Yes. Are you sober enough to drive?”

“ _Yes,_ ” Hank snaps automatically, but honestly, he’s not sure. 

He doesn’t feel the same as he did on the couch, but Hank’s pretty used to wandering around with high levels of alcohol saturating his blood and not noticing it until he gets behind the wheel and realizes that he can’t coordinate properly.

Hank zips the bag closed and moves to push past Connor again, but this time he doesn’t give way to Hank. A frown starts forming, and a snappy retort is about to burst from his mouth when Connor puts a hand on his chest and shoves him back in a twisted parody of the last time they were in Hank’s bathroom together. Connor kicks the door partially closed, and when Hank’s back hits the wall next to the toilet, Connor leans forward and probes Hank’s mouth with his tongue. 

It could hardly be called a kiss, not the way Connor does it, with all the warmth of a medical exam, but Hank grasps the knot of Connor’s tie and holds him close because, despite that, it still manages to get him hot and bothered. Connor’s hand touches the bruising on Hank’s neck, pushing and prodding against the tender flesh; Hank winces and pulls back. 

“Your blood-alcohol levels exceed state laws. I will drive.”

If Hank were feeling a bit more like his usual self, he’d probably argue for a few minutes before conceding to let Connor drive. Right now, he just wants Connor out of his face so he can get a grip on himself and get the rest of this damn drug out of his system. The fastest way to do that is let Connor ferry him to the motel and crash for the next twelve hours. 

He makes sure to grab his keys, phone, charger, badge and service weapon while Connor speaks briefly with Ben. As they head out the door, Hank shoves his car keys at Connor and gets in without looking at him. 

Connor handles his car as deftly as someone who has been doing it all their life and Hank can’t help but think about him and the millions of other androids in service that didn’t rebel to be free—they’re so much faster, hardier, more intelligent and capable in hundred different ways…why didn’t they want to be free?

(Why didn’t Connor want to be free?)

The motel is only a ten-minute drive from Hank’s street, and when they get there, Hank exits to get his room key while Connor finds a spot for the car. 

Inside, the receptionist is a greying, stern looking woman who probably was a bodybuilder in her youth, judging by the sheer size of her arms. 

“Cash up front,” she says without preamble, barely looking up from her magazine. 

Hank pulls out a physical credit card that he hasn’t used in a year or so—most places have fingerprint scanners these days—and tosses it on the countertop. “I’m the guy with the dog. Probably be here three nights.”

The woman gives him a once over, not touching his card. “No androids on the premises. Cop or not.”

“It’s goin’ back to its chargin’ station.”

She nods and picks up the card. “120 bucks for three night,” she tells him and swipes on his okay. “Got ID?”

Hank fishes his badge out. “Name’s on the card, and this is so you know the police android bit wasn’t a lie.” He tosses it on the counter next to the card. 

She studies it a moment, and then grabs a tablet, “Sign here, and I’ll get you a key.

He does and collects his things before grabbing the card and hobbling out. 

“Room 16,” she tells his back, and Hank tosses a wave in acknowledgement. 

Connor is already waiting for him next to the ground level suite with Hank’s duffle bag and managed to get his car parked right in front of the door. He probably booked a ground level room so Hank wouldn’t have to climb stairs with his bruised knee and from anyone else, Hank would appreciate the gesture, but from Connor, it always feels like manipulation. 

Hank keys the door open and pushes inside, Connor following close on his heels to keep Sumo from rushing out the door. Hank bends to pet Sumo, ruffling up his face and ears before moving to set down the key card and empty his pockets. Connor sets the duffle down on the suitcase stand and kneels to pet Sumo when the dog wanders over to investigate. 

Sumo doesn’t much care who pets him as long as someone does. 

Hank sheds his jacket, tossing it over the room’s only chair before sitting on the bed closest to the door. “You can go now,” Hank says testily, toeing his boots off. He hears the rustle of Connor’s jacket as he stands, and then the sound of his shoes on the thin carpet before Connor appears in front of him. 

Hank looks up. “What?”

“These last few days have provided me with a hypothesis,” Connor says, hands lax at his sides and every piece of him in perfect order. Except where Hank’s hands wrinkled his coat. 

“Yeah? Tell it to Ben. Not on the case anymore, remember?”

“Of course, but Detective Collins isn’t quite as versed in these matter as you are; it will likely take longer to solve now. However, that’s not what my hypothesis pertains to. I’m afraid that I’m still processing the data for this case and haven’t yet come to any significant conclusions.”

Hank gets the feeling he’s going to regret asking this, but… “So, what’s this hypothesis, then?”

“It pertains to you, Lieutenant, but I still require more data for an accurate picture.”

And there’s that regret. “Oh, get fucked, Connor. You plastic prick.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Is that what you want?”

“What?” Hank asks, momentarily confused. He’d expected Connor to almost roll his eyes and leave.

Instead, Connor crowds him, placing a firm hand on his chest and pressing Hank backward onto the bedspread. Banks of muscles in his abdomen and back protest at being abused again. Hank knocks Connor’s hand off with a frown, but the hand comes back, pressing harder, more _insistent_ and heat pools hot and hard in his belly. Hank knocks the hand away again, a snarl forming to tell Connor to fuck off, but Connor’s quicker and wraps a hand around Hank’s bruised neck. 

That finally allows him to shove Hank flat against the bedspread, and he realizes what Connor meant when he asked if this is what Hank wanted. 

“ _Oh fuck,_ ” Hank gasps as Connor straddles his lap, and suddenly the idea of his plastic prick is invading his brain in a way it hadn’t when he was fucked out on that stupid drug. 

Now it sounds like the best damn idea Hank’s had all night. All month. All _year._ Connor’s free hand goes for his belt, and Hank hardens as his brain kicks around all the _possibilities._ He bites down on a moan. 

Chances are, that’s the residue of the drug talking, and that’s what he’s going to blame it on tomorrow. Right now, he grabs the edges of Connor’s jacket again and pulls him as close as Connor will allow. 

“You’d better fuck me like you mean it,” Hank says, voice low and harsh. 

Connor’s hand still as his belt slips loose and flicks his eyes up to Hank’s. “Do you have any lubricant?”

Shit. 

Hank shakes his head as much as he can in Connor’s grip. There’s some in his nightstand at home, but it never occurred to him that he might need it here.

“Another time then,” Connor replies and focuses back on his task. 

“Fuck,” Hank moans, because _yes_ to all of that.

“I’ll need more data, in any case. Two tests aren’t enough to successfully draw a conclusion,” Connor continues as he pops Hank’s jean button open and tugs down his fly. 

Hank just nods. 

His hand is cool when it wraps around Hank’s dick—there’s none of that scorching heat that accompanies a human hand, and he bucks up into it with a gasping moan. Connor strokes him experimentally, touching with no purpose to create desire, but like most things Connor’s done in the last few hours, that somehow turns him on. 

Then, Connor removes his hand from Hank’s throat.

“May I ask you a personal question, Lieutenant?”

Hank raises his head from the bedspread and stares down the length of his torso to where Connor’s got his hand wrapped around his dick. “Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me right now with this bullshit?”

“I am not,” Connor replies guilelessly. 

“Now is _not_ the time.”

A thumb swipes over the tip of Hank’s cock and his head falls back with a groan. 

“I am capable of performing two tasks at once,” Connor says. 

“Oh fuck. I’m not—so not.”

Connor’s hand stops again. 

“Okay, okay, what?” Hank says with a frustrated intake of air. 

Connor idly starts stroking him, ensuring he’s distracted but coherent. Hank’s not entirely sure if it’s intentional. He’s not _not_ sure, either. 

“Would you have still shot that AX400 if it managed to destroy this unit?”

Hank raises his head again. “What? The hell that’s got to do with anything?”

“I’m curious.”

“You’re compiling data, is what.”

“Of course,” Connor replies as if that’s obvious. Which, Hank concedes, it is, and his head falls back. 

“Wouldn’t have been much point then.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

His hand pauses again, and Hank bucks his hips in frustration. 

“Jesus fuck, Connor. Stop teasing and do it right.”

Connor’s hand disappears from his dick altogether at that and Hank makes a harsh noise of annoyance. 

“Stop stalling and answer my question.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Hank snaps. “I would’ve fuckin’ shot her. Is that what you wanna hear? I’d’ve killed her because she killed you. And don’t fuckin’ remind me that you ‘can’t die’ because that wouldn't matter to my stupid monkey brain at that moment. Sure you'd've come back, but you probably would’ve had those creepy fuckin’ eyes, and I can't keep dealing with all these stupid 'Can I ask you a question, Lieutenant?'”

There’re a few seconds of silence, and on the ceiling, Hank can see the yellow flash of Connor’s LED.

“This unit is built to your specifications, with the memories you requested from RK800 and the physical appearance you prefer. Any replacement unit would not stray from those specifications.”

Hank levers himself up, muscles twinging from their earlier punishment, and shoves Connor back and away. The heat in his gut extinguished by this inane conversation. 

“Get outta here, you fuckin' annoying bot." Hank tucks his cock back into his pants, shaking his head. "Build to my specifications, my ass. If you were, you'd fuckin' listen.”

And for once, Connor actually does.

//

He gets a text from Fowler in the morning that he doesn’t see until the late afternoon when he finally crawls out of bed, telling him to take the day off. Hank huffs a slight breath of laughter when he reads it and shakes his head. 

With what’s left of the day, Hank feeds and takes Sumo for a walk, stopping to grab something for himself on the way. He feels about as shitty as he usually does after a bender, so its familiar at least, and he knows how to treat it. When he drops Sumo back at the motel room, Hank makes a run for some booze and stays out of the station the next day too. 

By the end of it, he’s bored out of his mind. So, on the third day, Hank goes back to work. 

He arrives only a half hour late, and that’s because he had to drop Sumo off at a daycare he hadn’t used in a few months so he wouldn’t destroy anything in the motel room while Hank was gone. He’d been so bored without work and his usual distractions at home, that Hank actually got out of bed on time, only a little hungover, got his and Sumo’s shit together in record time and left at an hour he hadn’t actually witnessed in over a year. 

It felt a little strange to have to deal with morning traffic again. 

He gets a few stares as he settles at his desk, setting his coffee and donut down before shedding his coat and scarf. He’s got nothing to hide the bruising aside from the scarf (which was to keep strangers from giving his weird looks), but it's too warm in the bullpen to keep the thing on, so he’s resolved to just not give a fuck about it.

Ben isn’t at his desk, and while Hank is dying to get back into his own home, he isn’t going to pester the man about it. He’s probably moving as fast as he can on the investigation and paperwork. For now, it’s better that he’s gone, so he doesn’t feel obligated to talk to Hank now that he’s back. 

“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Connor says as he settles at his desk. “Captain Fowler said you might not be in for a few more days.”

Hank shrugs and logs into his terminal. “Got bored.”

“Indeed? Well, Detective Collins and I haven’t made much more progress on the case. No new victims and no new evidence. It’s…frustrating.”

“Yeah, they can be like that,” Hank agrees. “Could be that they got what they wanted.”

“Perhaps. Random destruction doesn’t fit with a deviant though, even like that, androids are logical.”

Hank looks across the desk at Connor. “Then it ain’t random. Just a pattern we haven’t seen yet.”

“I should’ve.”

“Well, you aren’t a deviant. You’re operating at a disadvantage.”

Connor’s eyebrow ticks upward. “Are you suggesting I attempt to think like a deviant?”

“That’s how we catch criminals,” Hank replies gesturing at the bullpen. 

“It’s not that simple. Deviancy is a code error, I can’t replicate that.”

“Guess you’ll just have to beat your head against the wall a little longer then.” Hank pulls out his donut and takes a bite. “Not my case, not my problem.” He smiles, and Connor frowns ever so slightly. 

“Hank,” Fowler calls from his office door. “Come see me.”

Hank takes a gulp of his coffee to wash his donut bite down before standing and heading to the Captain’s office.

He closes the glass door behind him and takes a seat when Fowler gestures to the chair. 

The Captain looks him over for a moment, eyes lingering at Hank’s neck. “Thought you gave the shit up after the Academy,” he says instead of a good morning, nodding at the bruising. 

“Drugged up me thought it as a good idea, sober me is havin’ second thoughts. What’cha need Jeffery?”

Fowler leans back in his chair. “How are you doing?”

“Fine. Was bored, so I’m here. Lots of other cases to work on.”

“No lingering effects?”

Hank shakes his head. “Could always ask Connor to analyze a sample if you don’t trust me.”

Fowler waves a dismissive hand. “I trust, just concerned. Haven’t had anyone survive an attack. Don’t want to lose you, that’s all.”

“Really? Figured that’d make your life easier.”

“The paperwork would fuckin’ kill me, Hank. ‘Specially if you died with an android from Eden Club in your fuckin’ bed.”

Hank frowns. “Come again?”

“Don’t be embarrassed, I know you weren’t responsible for your actions. It’s all in Connor’s report—clever of him using alcohol to counter the stimulant portion of the drug. Probably wouldn’t work on anyone else, though. Need a certain level of…tolerance for it. In any case, you needn't worry about anyone seeing the thing’s memories. The tech androids analyzed it and the samples from Connor (don’t tell me how he got those, I don’t wanna know), so what’s left of your dignity is still intact.”

“From the Eden Club android…” Hank says slowly, trying to make Fowler’s words make sense in his brain. 

The Captain gives him a look. “How much do you remember?”

Hank almost says ‘all of it,’ but then that might not work well with whatever lie Connor’s apparently spun. He can hardly believe Connor went to the trouble. “Uh, it’s a bit hazy, to be honest. Just left with the physical evidence.” He gestures to his neck. 

“Probably for the best. Do your best with your statement. We’ve already got the android’s memories, so it’s not that crucial. I’m sure Ben will find you later.”

“Yeah…anything else?”

Fowler shakes his head. “Do what you can with the deviant cases on the docket. I know you’re down a partner until this Spanish Fly bullshit is dealt with.”

Hank nods and stands, showing himself out of the Captain’s office. He trots down the stairs and pauses just out of Fowler’s visual range. Hank’s not sure if he should be angry at Connor or not. He falsified evidence, and that pisses Hank right the fuck off because where the _hell_ does he get off messing with a case like that, but he’s also a little grateful that the Connor went to the trouble to keep it out of the rumour mill. Probably wouldn’t have lost his job over it with the extenuating circumstances, but fuck if he needed Gavin or anyone else giving him shit over it. 

Still, the little shit tamped with evidence. If that ever got out, they’d both be finished. So yeah, he settles on mildly angry. _Fuck._

Hank heads back to his desk. When he retakes his seat, Connor looks at him, analyzing his microexpressions no doubt. 

“You don’t approve of my decision,” Connor says, voice quiet but not small. 

“You _lied,_ ” Hank hisses, looking at his terminal screen, trying to keep a neutral look on his face. “And that could get us both fired.”

“Unlikely.”

“And that’s exactly how people get fuckin’ caught because they don’t think they will.”

“I’m not a person and infinitely more capable.”

“Got a fuckin’ ego like one, though,” Hank snaps.

“I have not overestimated my abilities. You have underestimated them. The footage from the Eden Club android is on the evidence server. You can view it and judge for yourself.”

“Oh yeah, and get caught browsing evidence on a case I’m not on anymore? Fuck off.”

Connor makes a noise almost like exasperation and reaches out his hand, skin shuffling back to expose the white exoskeleton underneath. He touches Hank’s terminal, overriding his login and forcing Connor’s terminal home screen to appear. 

“I’ve mirrored my terminal to yours,” he says, pulling his hand away. “You can view it without leaving your digital trace on the file.”

Hank scowls at Connor. “Fuckin’ presumptuous of you.”

“You won’t trust my word, so see for yourself.”

“In the middle of the fuckin’ bullpen?!” Hank hisses, dropping his voice. He’s burning with curiosity now that he’s been given an opportunity, but it feels like a bad idea.

“You’ve watched worse.”

Hank runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck. Okay. But just the part where my tv gets destroyed.”

The video file appears on the screen, in a small window and thank fuck for that. Connor scrolls through it faster than Hank can really see before stopping on a motion blurred image that looks like the part where Connor flipped him. It’s weird to see it from this angle. The video starts playing, sound muted.

The first thing he sees his own face and Hank has to look at another part of the screen. It’s so awful seeing himself look that fucked out of it, that desperate and needy. It’s embarrassing as hell and Connor saw him like that. Then the focus shifts to where Connor impacted the tv stand, but instead of his white coat, Hank sees a flash of dark skin. Connor’s gaze focuses back on Hank, and he’s not looking at Connor or the android that Connor changed himself into, but rather where the tv is tipping forward. 

In the peripheral vision of Connor’s memory, Hank can see the dark-skinned hand fly up to stop the thing from tipping over and put a nice little dent in his thousand-dollar tv. He watches his own face twist into something nasty over that damage before that same foreign looking hand clamps around his neck and squeezes the retort right from his brain. The video stops there and closes before Hank’s terminal goes back to normal. 

“I figured that the ethnicity of the android didn’t matter, as long as it was male. To make it believable that you would let it handle you like that.”

“I wouldn’t—” Hank says before he can stop himself and closes his eyes. Fuck. 

“Only me?” Connor asks, voice still quiet but with something odd underpinning it. 

Hank instinctively opens his eyes to try and see what his ears detect, but Connor is studiously looking at his terminal. The next moment, Ben appears at Hank’s desk. 

“Hey, didn’t expect to see you for another few days,” Ben says with a smile.

“Yeah, well, got bored,” Hank repeats. “Makin’ any progress?”

Ben shakes his head. “Not really. No new evidence or leads. No other victims and Vice has nothing on the drug but what we gave 'em. This is a tough one, Hank. Hell, there doesn’t even seem to be a motive. You’d be better on this one than me.”

“If I could erase the last few days, I would.”

“I believe it. Anyways, one good thing is you should have your place back to you tomorrow. Got a cleaning crew there today to make sure none of the drug is left when you go back.”

“Thanks, Ben. Appreciate it.”

Ben claps him on the shoulder. “I’d say ‘anytime’, but neither one of us wants to do this again, so you’re welcome. And don’t let this become a habit, huh?”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

“So, you ready for that statement?”

Hank makes a face, both an act and a genuine emotion. Fuck. “Yeah. Might as well get it over with.” 

“I’d like a moment of the Lieutenant’s time before you take him for a statement. I just need to clear up a few details so I can get started on some tasks,” Connor says. Hank nearly breathes a sigh of relief. Shit, yeah they need to clear up a few details.

Ben shrugs. “Sure. I gotta go to the lab anyway for another case. Ten minutes enough time?”

“With this thing, probably not.” Hank makes a _‘he talks too fucking much’_ gesture with one hand, and Ben chuckles. 

“Bring your notes,” Ben says with a smirk and heads toward the elevator. 

When he’s out of hearing range, Connor looks at Hank and says quietly, “With all that coffee you ingested, you should probably use the restroom before we start.”

Hank raises an eyebrow but stands. Talking in the bullpen would be a bad idea, and the washroom is better than nothing he supposes. Just as long as no one is in it.

He waits in the handicap stall, sitting on the lid of the toilet, for Connor to arrive. It takes him a little longer than Hank would have liked considering their time crunch, but he will concede that it’s harder for Connor to escape to the bathroom than it is for Hank. When he does finally arrive, Hank stands as Connor checks the other stalls and then doubles back to the door before joining Hank.

Never thought he’d be doing washroom deals like some crooked cop, but life does like to fuck him over for the fun of it. 

“After I did a preliminary investigation of the crime scene at your house, I assessed your condition and deemed it necessary to procure an Eden Club android for you,” Connor tells him without preamble. “Once the android arrived, I maintained a discreet distance to ensure you didn’t expire due to unforeseen effects of the drug. This alteration is close enough to the truth that it won’t be difficult for you to repeat convincingly.”

“Like all the best lies,” Hank says with a sigh. He’s still not a 100% on board with this, but things have progressed without his input and turning back now would be damning. “I am in blood stepped so far,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Anything else I should know?”

“I’ve altered nothing else.”

“Okay. And for future reference, don’t pull something like this again without tellin’ me first. I hate lying about this shit.”

“As you wish, Lieutenant.”

Hank waves a hand at the door. “Beat it before someone comes in.”

“I’ve put a maintenance lock on the door. It says its temporarily closed for cleaning. We won’t be disturbed.”

“Just how fuckin’ long did you think we’d be in here?” Hank asks with a scowl even as his stomach flips. 

Connor crowds him then, touching his chest with the five points of his fingers and _pushes._ “It took approximately three minutes for you to orgasm unaided last time. Aided, I’m certain I can cut that time in half.”

Hank swipes at Connor’s hand, but he moves it before Hank can make contact and puts it right back in the same spot with a sharp jab that has Hank stumbling back a step. Heat pools in his belly and this time he can’t blame it on the drug. Hank rebounds from his stumble and puts his shoulder into Connor, shoving him back. 

“Fuck off, Connor. I’m not lettin’ you blow me in the fuckin’ precinct john.”

Connor recovers and tugs his vest straight. “That’s the point, though, isn’t it, Lieutenant?” A hand darts out quicker than Hank can react to, and coils tightly around his throat. Connor’s fingers finding all the old bruises as he settles back in the same spot and _squeezes._ “It isn’t about _letting_ me do anything.”

Hank’s hands claw at Connor’s even as his head falls back, pain throbbing in his neck. Every bit of air Connor wrings from his lungs, every gasping struggle for breath goes right to his dick. He’s shoved back until he makes contact with the wall and Connor leans his whole weight against Hank, pinning him there, helpless. 

After a moment, Connor’s grip eases enough that Hank can suck in enough air to keep him from blacking out, and Connor’s free hand goes to his belt. He’d curse if he could waste the breath on it. Hank lingers in a haze, only dimly aware of the progress Connor is making with his jeans, the rest of his focus is on dragging in enough oxygen past the tight press of Connor’s fingers. 

A moment passes. Then two. 

Connor’s hand releases the pressure against his neck and Hank drags in a spluttering gulp of air. It leaves him on a wheezing moan when Connor’s cool mouth wraps around his cock. His hips instinctively try to thrust, but Connor’s already got his hips pinned in a crushing grip, and he can’t move a single inch. 

Connor moves excruciatingly slow, tongue probing and teasing. It’s not a blow job, it’s a fucking experiment; a chance to get some more that data that Connor can’t seem to live without, and Hank is _dying_ with the glacial pace. He tries to squirm for more contact, for better contact, or fucking _anything,_ but Connor’s hold is like iron and there’s no give. He’s honestly surprised when he feels Connor’s nose bump into his belly because Hank didn’t fucking think he’d ever get there. Hank looks down to find Connor staring up at him, mouth stretched wide around his cock and—

—“Oh fuck,” he gasps and squeezes his eyes shut because just looking at that is going to make him come. 

He bangs the wall with a fist, hoping a little pain might help him gain a measure of control. There is none to be found, though. Not with that image burned into his mind’s eye. 

The cool of Connor’s mouth leaves his cock then, and Hank can’t help noise of protest that slips out. 

“Look at me,” Connor demands, and the tone of his voice (the one he uses with stubborn deviants in the interrogation room and he’s done pretending to be sympathetic) more than anything is what forces Hank to open his eyes. 

Even kneeling on the floor before him, Connor is every bit of put together he typically is. Not a hair out of place, or clothing wrinkled. No telltale flush that would be on a human’s face, or dilated pupils, or harsh breath. Fuck, Connor doesn’t even breathe so there isn’t any hot air hitting his dick the way there would be if it were someone else. The only thing that gives anything away is the slight sheen on Connor’s lips.

“Watch,” Connor tells him and doesn’t move until Hank gives him a jerky nod in understanding. 

He doesn’t need Connor’s hand around his throat to stop him from breathing, the sight of Connor’s mouth stretched around his dick is enough to make his brain fritz on that particular life necessitating action. Connor watches him with an unblinking gaze, sinking inextricably forward, and belatedly Hank realizes that Connor doesn’t have a gag reflex. He chokes on a moan, hand peeling away from the wall to touch Connor’s hair. Drags his fingers through it, messing it up its annoying perfection. 

Again, Connor’s nose bumps up against his belly, and Hank’s fingers curl in Connor’s hair to hold him there. Not that he could stop Connor from pulling back nor that it matters in any way beyond having an illusion of control in this whole situation. 

An illusion that’s quickly shattered when Connor hollows his cheeks and _sucks._ Hank can’t control the way his head falls back against the wall, shooting a mild frisson of pain as it makes hard contact, and he lets out a strangled noise. Connor draws back slowly, tongue dragging along the underside of Hank’s cock until he’s right at the head and Hank babbles swears he’d forgotten decades ago. 

Connor slides down again, just as torturously slow as the first time and Hank loses whatever paltry control he had. He feels his orgasm building, right from the base of his feet, and he barely gets out a choked, “ _Connor,_ ” just as his cock hits the back of Connor’s throat and—

— _he's gone._

Snow, like that of an old television without a signal, fills his brain, bright and harsh. 

Distantly, he feels Connor’s mouth leave his dick, and the lessening of the pressure against his hips—flaring in sudden pain as blood rushes back into the spots where Connor’s fingers had driven it out. His legs threaten to give out then, knees gone to jelly, and Connor keeps him from landing in a heap on the floor. He watches dumbly as Connor tucks him away and does up his jeans and belt before standing. 

Connor tugs his vest back into place and smooths his hair. Taking but a moment to look utterly composed again. Hank isn’t. He knows he looks like just got fucked. There’s no way to hide that look. Not until his heart rate comes down, and his euphoria fades a little more, and he can talk without the husky timber of lust and crushed throat affecting his voice. 

“My prediction was correct,” Connor says mildly as he plucks his cuffs back into perfection. “You now have two minutes before Detective Collins said he’d return for your statement. Might I suggest splashing some cold water on your face?”

“Get bent, Connor,” Hank snaps, voice almost non-existent, and he pushes himself off the wall. 

“Damaging me would be unwise, Lieutenant. Though, as much as you claim to hate it when my memories are uploaded to a new unit, it does ultimately serve you.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“My hypothesis. A deviant Connor would be unwilling to offer the punishment you believe you deserve. I, on the other hand, have no qualms about hurting you for this purpose.”

A harsh bark of laughter escapes Hank. Christ, he really is that fucking pathetic to want Connor to hurt him like that. Asshole nailed it before Hank had even fully grasped it. Shit like this, though, is always a two-way street.

“Difference between ‘no qualms’ and enjoyin’ it, Connor.”

“I enjoy nothing. I’m a machine.”

Hank crowds close to Connor, mirroring what he did to Hank a few short minutes ago and jabs his chest with a finger. “Then why do you keep initiating this?”

Connor’s LED spins yellow for a moment before returning to that cold blue. He leaves without further debate. 

Hank feels a twisted sense of triumph at that. 

Plastic prick. 

//

Connor gave him enough of the puzzle for Hank to muddle through his statement. It helped that he’d already told Fowler that his memory wasn’t that great of the night, even though he had made a few notes for himself (not that they did him any good now). It doesn’t feel right to lie to Ben like this, but he is in pretty fuckin deep now, and that video was fucking flawless to Hank’s eyes. 

Not that he’s one of the android techs going through everything with a fine-tooth comb, but if Connor could fool them, maybe he could fool everyone. Still, makes Hank want to check his bank account and see if Connor has put enough detail into the lie to rent an android with his money. 

Wouldn’t be the first lie he spent money on. 

After that, Hank spends a few days cooling his heels slogging through a backlog of deviancy reports. They aren't severe enough to warrant a full-blown investigation, but as part of the agreement that allows the DPD to get a state-of-the-art policing RK900 android on loan, they need someone to verify and possibly send a recall notice to Cyberlife about defective units. As of December, the only way people get their money back is if a Detective signs off on the deviancy. 

And it’s fucking awful work. 

There are the people who are just fucking paranoid tattle-tales that get good androids reclaimed because they didn’t fold the laundry right or cooked a dinner that wasn’t up to their impossible standards. 

Hank tells them to stop wasting police time. 

Then there are the scumbags just trying to cheat their way into a newer model android, which is about the fastest way to get on Hank’s bad side.

They get a few more _choice_ words.

Lastly, there are the people with actual deviancy problems, and they probably only amount to about 10% of the actual calls the department gets on this issue. Which he almost hates more than the people trying to cheat because it just breaks his fucking heart to hear those androids beg their owners or Hank to not send them back to Cyberlife for deactivation and study. 

He hears their cries but doesn’t do anything other than sign the deviancy waver. 

He’s still too much of a coward and too jaded to try and fix a problem he now sees; too angry about the one android he wanted to save and _couldn’t._

Hank can only work on those cases for a few days before the hangovers get so blindingly awful that he has to stop for the sake of his pounding head and a heavy heart. Then, because he can’t help but pick at old wounds, Hank pulls up the AX400 case to go over the evidence again. 

He reads through the case file and browses the crime scene photos, but nothing jumps out at him. He debates whether or not to watch the memory file once more, it was pretty violent last time and he really could do without that on his bar tab again, but if he’s going to try and pinpoint the nagging something, he’s got to go through it one last time so he can say he checked everything. With a sigh, he brings the file up on his screen and plays the video muted. 

It’s just as hard to watch the second time, even without the sound. Hank forces himself to scrutinize every part of the memory, trying to find something that he missed on the first go round. The wife’s snarling face appears on the screen for a split second, and Hank winces slightly at the sight of it. Then, something twigs in the back of his mind, and he rewinds the video, pausing at that exact moment. 

He knows that emotion. 

Just experienced it for himself barely a week ago. Originally, it looked like sheer madness, but now Hank knows what it truly is. _Desperation._ Chemical desperation. Madness on the surface, but something far worse underneath. Suddenly it all clicks together.

What Janey said in the interrogation about how Mrs. Halliard ‘needed’.

The weird tension between the Halliards when Hank questioned them. 

They didn’t have five victims. They had _six._

Hank stands and collects his coat and scarf from the back of his chair. He has to talk to the Halliards again and confirm. 

“Hey Ben,” Hank calls across their little aisle. 

“Yeah?” Ben turns from his terminal. 

“You spare Connor? Need him for a case.”

“Sure. He’s going over evidence again in the lockup. Want me to call him up?”

“Thanks. Tell him to meet me in the parking garage.”

Hank doesn’t have to wait long for Connor to arrive, a questioning look on his face, but he doesn’t ask what this is about until Hank has pulled out onto the street. 

“I wasn’t aware anything new had arrived needing our joint efforts.”

“It’s not new. It’s the AX400 case.”

“I haven’t made any progress on the fractured memory. It appears to be beyond repair.”

Hank weaves in and out of traffic. Impatient. “Doesn’t matter. I made a break, just need to talk with the Halliards to confirm.”

“New evidence?”

“A new way of lookin’ at evidence. I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t been dosed too. Mrs. Halliard, Spanish Fly, that’s what was wrong with her. Janey said she ‘needed’. Damn rights she did, she couldn’t fuckin’ help herself and that emotional shock—”

“Made a deviant out of her android. Of _course._ It’s the same M.O., we just didn’t find any drugs on the scene.”

“We didn’t know to look.”

The Adelphi Building looks a hell of a lot different in the sunlight than it did the last time they were here in the dark. Hank pulls up to the curb, turns on his holoplacard indicating this is a police vehicle, and gets out of the car. 

The ride up to the 29th floor is quiet and eerily similar to the last time they rode up in the elevator together, complete with Connor playing with his coin and Hank starting to get a headache. 

Connor remembers the way to the Halliards apartment and Hank follows his path. It’s Hank that knocks on the door, though. There’s a pause as they listen for movement. He’d already called the Halliards earlier to stay he was dropping by with a few more questions, so he knows they’re both home. 

After a couple of moments, Mr. Halliard opens the door, looking slightly pinched and nervous. He invites them inside, and Hank and Connor follow him to the living room where Mrs. Halliard is seated. Mr. Halliard takes a seat next to her, gently taking her hand. 

“I’ll just cut to the chase,” Hank says as he sits on the couch diagonally across from the Halliards. He doesn’t want to beat around the bush. “We know you were dosed with a drug, Mrs. Halliard, so this time, I want the truth. What happened?”

For a moment, they stare at Hank in surprise, before they turn to one another, silently communicating. 

“She didn’t mean to do it,” Mr. Halliard blurts, defiant. “She was out of her mind. That stuff made her crazy.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.”

“There have been others,” Connor says, voice pitched to placate. “We need an accurate statement to help us get a better picture of why someone would want to target you.”

Mrs. Halliard squeezes her husband’s hand to comfort him, then she takes a steadying breath.

“I found the package in front of the door when I got home,” she begins. “It was addressed to me, but I didn’t remember ordering anything. I took it into the kitchen and set it down on the counter while I put my coat and things away. When I get around to opening it, I found a little, wrapped box inside. It looked like something from a jeweller’s, and I got excited thinking Keith had gotten me something pretty.”

Mr. Halliard frowns. He has a look caught somewhere between guilt and remorse. Probably thinking if he had actually bought her something like that, this wouldn’t have happened. 

“So, I tore the wrapping off it, selfishly not wanting to wait for Keith to get home, and…it just sort of blew up in my face. It was so surprising that for a moment I didn’t do anything, except try to spit the powdery stuff out of my mouth. Then I was angry at the practical joke and swore. I went to the sink to wash my face and as I was drying off, Janey—” here Mrs. Halliard’s composure breaks and she starts crying. “Janey came into the kitchen to see if I was alright and I…and I…”

Hank gestures that he’s heard enough. He went through that at a lower dose, and he doesn’t want to relive details. He can hardly ask her to do what he won’t. 

Mr. Halliard husband wraps an arm around her and pulls her into his chest, gently stroking her hair and speaking softly to her. 

Funny. He wanted to hate them for what they did to Janey, but its never that easy, is it? She’s just as much a victim in this as her android. 

“Thank you,” Hank says, “and sorry to drag it up, but did you keep any of the packaging?”

“No,” Mr. Halliard says. “I threw it all away when I realized it was the cause.”

Hank just nods. He didn’t think they’d be that lucky.

“Your testimony was of great help,” Connor adds. 

Hank rises. “We’ll, uh, see ourselves out.”

The walk to the elevator is made in silence as they both think about what has been learned. Hank pushes the button for the ground floor. It’s where they left it and the doors chime as they open. 

As usual, Connor speaks first. 

“Six victims. Two survived by chance. Mr. Halliard interrupting and the subsequent fight likely lowered Mrs. Halliard’s heart rate enough that she was able to metabolize the drug before it killed her.”

Hank nods in agreement. 

“They were all likely supposed to die, but the drug is new. Perhaps not fully tested. The effectiveness of it in certain situations was not assessed.”

“Didn’t count on a drunk or a jealous husband.”

“But why these people? There’s no link. Nothing connects them.”

“Random.” Hank pauses, considering. “Almost too random. Like a sampling of the population.”

“Like the way an android would try to be random, yes, we established that,” Connor replies as they step onto the car. “There’s still no clear connection between the victims.”

Hank shoves his hands in the pocket of his coat and thinks. “Maybe…maybe that’s the point. I mean, what if we’re lookin’ at this wrong? …What if one person is the target and the rest are smoke?”

“That would explain why we haven’t found any connection.” Connor pulls out his coin and Hank thinks that they might have finally made some progress on this damn case. “Who then, is the target?”

Hank shrugs, inspiration petering out. “First victim, last victim, someone in the middle?”

There’s a moment of silence.

“It’s you,” Connor says abruptly like he can’t quite believe it took him this long to realize it. “You’re the target.”

Hank opens his mouth to protest before his brain manages to catch up and his mouth clicks closed. 

Duh. 

“Fuck.”

//

A week later, Hank is sitting on his couch, beer in hand, Sumo stretched out beside him, as he watches some show that he’s lost the thread of but is too lazy to back out of and find another. The new TV was compensation from Cyberlife according to the note left with the box when he saw the thing in his living room a day after he got back into his house. Hank suspects Connor wrangled with Cyberlife’s PR department to get him a replacement for the one that was wrecked, though the android never said anything about it. 

Fowler was pretty pissed when Hank and Connor went to him with their revelations on the case, not the least of which was directed at Hank for tying the Halliard’s case the case he wasn’t supposed to be working on and not telling the actual detective responsible for it what his big hunch was. He probably would’ve been put on administrative leave for that lack of judgement if he weren’t the target of a deviant who’d already killed four of his six victims and that he was safest at work. 

Plus, it was cheaper in the long run since they only had to spare a drone to keep tabs on his house rather than a couple of plainclothes officers if he were on leave.

He’s about to bite the bullet and call up the guide menu for a sports game when the doorbell rings. Sumo’s head shoots right up, but a gruff noise from Hank keeps him from barking. He’d like to ignore it, but there’s only one person that comes to his door, and the fucker won’t leave him in peace. 

The doorbell rings again. 

Hank’s head falls back on the edge of the couch as he swears, before heaving himself up and staggering to the door. He opens it a foot, blocking Sumo’s exit and stares at Connor with a scowl.

“Good evening, Lieutenant. May I come it?”

Hank props an arm against the door frame. “Unless the fuckin’ President died with his dick in an android, I’m not interested. Casework for case hours and I’m off the clock.”

“I’m not here about a case, not directly.”

“Well, why don’t you ‘not directly’ explain on the porch—” Sumo whines slightly from the side of Hank’s leg and pushes his face forward in an attempt to get out. “—or better yet, wait ‘til tomorrow.”

One of Connor’s eyebrows tick upward slightly before he says, “Two weeks ago at the Eastern Motel you stated that you’d like to engage in sexual—”

Hank grabs the edge of Connor’s jacket and yanks him inside, slamming the door behind him. 

“You do realize my fuckin’ house is under drone surveillance, right?” Hank snaps letting go of Connor. “ _Fuck._ Are you trying to get us fired?”

Sumo gives an excited bark and leans heavily against Connor’s leg, tail thumping on the floor. Idiot dog. 

“If you’d allowed me inside earlier, I wouldn’t have had to begin this conversation outside,” Connor replies straightening his jacket. “I am also, aware that you are under surveillance for your continued safety. The drone was down the block when I knocked, so it overheard nothing.”

“Good. In that case, not interested in a repeat performance of the other week, so you can fuckin’ go, and I’ll get back to my couch.”

“I simply mentioned that to get inside, and though relevant, it isn’t what I can here to discuss.” Connor pets the top of Sumo’s head. Sneaky fucker. 

“Still not interested. Talk to Ben if it pertains to the Spanish Fly case.”

“I see. So you’d like me to mention to him that I believe the reason for this rather convoluted method of going about killing a police officer when a bullet will do just as well, was to paint a target on my back as well? And that the point of the drug was to make it look like you’d died while engaged in coitus with me? That would have effectively and permanently dissolved the deviant taskforce.”

Hank scrubs a hand over his face and swears as he considers what Connor has said. “This fuckin’ case. Fine, if that’s true, how would they know I’d call you? You told Jeffery that I was supposed to be the first victim, not Mrs. Halliard, but I fucked that up by not opening the package until I was the last. 

“If I’d opened it first, I wouldn’t’ve known what I was dealin’ with and woulda gone to the hospital. Shit, I almost did before I thought better of it knowing the symptoms.”

“You also wouldn’t have thought to immediately wash the powder off, giving it more time to be effective, which would have made you much less rational in choosing someone to contact. Given your limited acquaintances and friendships, the only logical choice is me.” Connor pauses a moment before continuing with, “It wouldn’t have been hard to deduce for someone in regular contact with you. Even superficially.”

It takes Hank a second to connect Connor’s dots. 

“Hold up, are you fuckin’ saying… You think a— _police_ android did this?!”

“Aside from myself, what other types of androids do you interact with? You purposefully go to human vendors for all your needs, you drive a car that still requires fossil fuel, and all pump station jockeys are humans, you choose drone deliveries for packages purchased online instead of android. 

“You are one of the few humans that have effectively cut out all androids from your personal life, and if you had a choice in your job, you wouldn’t interact with them there either. And since it is the only place you do interact with androids, it must be one of them. Whether they orchestrated or simply provided intel, is another question.”

Hank moves to sit back on the couch. It’s fucking hard to take in, but Connor’s logic is faultless, as always. And honestly, now that he thinks about it, it so fucking perfect. He almost admires how clean the whole thing would’ve been had Hank been the first victim. The deviant team destroyed, their police partnership scrapped, more dead humans, the DPD scrambling to find the killer, the news going batshit as people died, and the deviants free to act while the city is distracted.

“Bet they’re kickin’ themselves it didn’t work. Shit. It woulda been perfect.”

“Yes. Which is why I’ve come to believe that there won’t be another attempt on your life. Simply killing you wasn’t the goal. It was the cascading effect of your death, my implied involvement, the destruction of the DPD’s partnership with Cyberlife, and the chaos of a half-a-dozen android related deaths.”

“Could always set those pins up again.”

“True; however, I suspect that the android is keeping a close eye on our progress. It likely knows we’ve made the connection between Mrs. Halliard and the Spanish Fly case, it will probably conclude we’ve made this connection too. Or will act as if we have to stay undetected.”

Hank nods. Even as he said that he knew the android wouldn’t. There’s too much at stake now; too easy to get caught. The deviant missed its chance. 

Something occurs to Hank then, and he frowns. 

“Aren’t all emergency service android subject to special deviant screening tests at Cyberlife at recharge? If it is a police android, how has it avoided detection?”

“The same question occurred to me,” Connor replies, frowning slightly. “I have not yet found an answer. All my investigations to this point have yielded nothing.”

Hank stares hard at Connor, eyes narrow. His LED is yellow, but Hank doesn't trust it. “Is it you?”

Connor’s head tilts ever so slightly. “I had not considered another Connor unit.”

“No,” Hank replies as he stands, his one hand curling like it would around the gun he left on the table next to the door, “I mean you. This unit. This _fuckin’_ unit.”

“What would I gain from this? I was built specifically to hunt deviants. If our partnership is dissolved, then there is no need for me. I would have no function.”

Hank wants to believe that, but he’s a little too jaded to take Connor on just his word. “Prove it.”

Connor’s brow furrows in confusion, and this time his LED stays blue. “How? Would you like me to destroy your career and thus our partnership to show you that I will have no place at the DPD without you?”

“Goddamn melodramatic machine—”

“Irrational human,” Connor interrupts coldly. “The entire point of our partnership and my existence is to put an end to my necessity. Every day we work toward the eventuality of my redundancy. Why would I hasten that situation without first solving the problem I was created to deal with?”

Hank crowds Connor against the door. “Then why haven’t you found the deviant you were built to hunt? Huh?”

“It’s difficult to hunt anything when I have to deal with you, first and foremost. I was unaware that I’d get partnered with an alcoholic detective, long past his prime investigative days.”

“Jokes on you, Connor. I’m well-fuckin’-aware of my shortcomings. Thing is, I’m not so fucked up that I can’t tell when some asshole is usin’ a diversionary tactic.” Hank prods Connor hard in the chest. “Did you do this? Are you the android that the screen can’t catch?”

“No.”

Connor’s LED spins blue, blue, _blue._

Hank doubts himself for a moment and steps back. “Get out.”

Connor gives a single, curt nod before leaving.

Though the window, Hank watches as Connor trots down the stairs and heads toward the street. After a moment’s contemplation, Hank grabs his service pistol from where he dumped it on the side table next to the door and steps out onto the stoop. 

“Connor,” he calls, and the android stops, half turning to acknowledge him. “Next time, don’t fuckin’ lie to me.”

The gunshot echoes down the street, bouncing off the houses as it fades. Connor’s body collapses in a heap on the sidewalk, blue blood beginning to pool around his head. Hank spares the scene a momentary scowl before heading back inside and slamming the door. 

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to read something a little dark, and there doesn't seem to be much of that in this fandom. Not that I don't love the Hank/Connor fluff, but DBH has some great potential for dystopian-ness that I wanted to have something explore that. And since I couldn't find it, I wrote it. *shrugs*


End file.
